by A. C. Bextor
My God. So beautiful.
Elevent takes a quick glance around his room, the muscles in his arm strain when he runs another towel through his wet hair.
He either hasn’t noticed I’m awake, or he’s avoiding me entirely. Paying no mind to either, I use this opportunity to watch him dress.
Every motion he uses to gather his things is deliberate and strong. Giving me his back, he slides on his jeans then pulls a clean tee shirt out from the dresser drawer. Once his body is covered, he takes a seat at the edge of bed, bending down to adjust his boots.
“Hungover?” he questions the room and I startle in place.
I just mentally devoured his body as he dressed, but I did this thinking he hadn’t taken notice.
“No.”
“Hungry?” he asks next, bending again to the opposite foot.
“No,” I answer, but it’s a lie.
“Tired?”
“No,” I return another lie just as quickly.
Turning in place, Elevent positions his upper body over mine, securing me in with one hand at either hip. I must look psychotic. At the very least, my hair probably mimics Medusa. I figure my makeup from last night, the little I wore, all but washed away in the rain.
Elevent uses the tips of his finger to cautiously trace a line from temple to jaw. He smiles knowingly and asks, “You sore?”
My face flushes, the heat firing up from my chest to my neck.
“I’m fine,” I return, hoping for space but not about to ask.
“Fine,” he copies on a smirk.
“Yes, fine.”
“You always run so hot?” he asks.
“What do you mean, hot?”
“You fall asleep and you’re a fuckin’ furnace.”
“I don’t know. How could I? I’m asleep.”
“Half-pissed I had to shower early. I liked being able to smell you.”
“Gross.” And a little sick and twisted. But whatever, he’s said worse.
Smiling, he informs, “I sweat my ass off all night. Worse things.”
I like him close. I enjoy the way he looks at me. I love the way his voice gentles when he gives me a piece about himself I didn’t know. The way he takes my expressions in, as if studying to learn.
“I have shit to do this morning,” he informs.
What I don’t like is that.
I didn’t necessarily want to discuss what happened last night, but the fear he’s dismissing it as if it never happened bothers me.
The sickening and overriding thought to how many women lay in this bed before me, watching him dress, waiting for him to notice they’re awake, burns. My stomach lurches, picturing Lane with him, doing what we did. And more hurt strikes, wondering how he must compare the two.
With Elevent, there was no comparison to be made to anyone. Least of all Toby; he was sweet, kind, reassuring, and gentle. None of it what I wanted or needed. He took care of me afterward. Always. Making sure I was satisfied and content before we slept.
Elevent made sure I was satisfied during. After, he stayed in bed, watching me make my own way into his bathroom. When I’d finished brushing my teeth and making myself comfortable, I’d found him exactly how I left him—quiet and content.
This was oddly a relief. No pressure. No words. Nothing.
Elevent’s dark eyes pierce mine as he states, “After I get shit done, if you’re in the mood, I’ll take you for a ride.”
“A ride?”
“On my bike,” he goes further.
“Really?”
Nodding, he orders, “Get up, shower, then go find one of the girls. I’d vote Cricket ‘cause she’s closer to your size, but after last night, I’m not so sure she’s—”
Using my hand, I cover his mouth, fearing what he’ll have to say about Cricket and my behavior as we came back.
God knows I can’t carry a tune, and Cricket was no better. Yet, fueled with enough alcohol, nothing stopped us from belting out Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time.”
Elevent’s fingers wrap around my wrist, gently tugging before pulling it away. His smirk is now a smile and my belly flips knowing I’m the cause.
“So find Sunny,” he goes on. “Tell her you need riding gear for the afternoon. She’ll sort that. I’ll get Lane or Joz behind the bar.”
“Are you sure I can ride?”
“What do you mean—am I sure?” he questions, his eyes continuing to scan my face.
“I’ve never been on a bike.”
“What was all the smack talk about last night then?” he jabs.
I went on and on talking about Hank and Runner, my new friends. I ended up, ass in seat, hands on handles, on the biggest bike I could find. I didn’t actually ride one though.
Elevent took to my words with attention, as now he’s offering me exactly what they had.
“Those bikes were parked. You know,” I start, moving my hands in front of me like I was driving. “Hardly a threat.”
“Not a lot to ridin’, Angel. Wrap your thighs around me and hold on tight.”
The image of me doing just that sends a shock to my core. I’d done the same last night, as he instructed. I can do that again.
“I’ll talk to Sunny,” I confirm.
“Good,” he replies, drawing his mouth closer to mine. “And don’t worry,” he says, kissing my lips once and again, but not offering a true taste. “I’ll teach you how to ride.”
“Okay,” I agree.
“You have about an hour, ninety minutes at most. Get some fluids, take an aspirin if you need one, but see to those clothes and be ready when I come back.”
I let Elevent instruct, rambling off what exactly I’m supposed to do in his absence. But little does he know how, hungover or not, I’ll be happily waiting for him to return.
Honestly, a gorgeous man, who owns a Harley Davidson, offering to take me for a ride?
Hell, yes!
“Settled then. We’re headed to Ohio at the end of the week,” Sty confirms, scanning the table for any last minute objections.
“There’s no reason not try this,” Gypsy says after, doubt still tensing the room. “Worse case, Peril doesn’t back us. And we come home no worse off.”
“We won’t be worse off, but we’ll still be fucked,” Leglas puts in, sitting at my side and running his fingers through his recently growing beard.
“They won’t say no to helping,” Sty claims. “Shame and Elevent go back. Pop and Doc go back, too.”
Sty’s right in that Saint’s goes back in time with Peril, but he’s wrong in his certainty.
I’ve known Patrick ‘Hem’ Collins and Neil ‘Shame’ Carrick for years.
Our friendship goes back to when we were all younger men. Before I’d joined Saint’s, I briefly considered another club in Sage, Ohio.
The Lights of Peril.
Hem being the president is easygoing, level-headed, and most times tolerant.
Shame, his VP, has absolutely none of those qualities. He’s quick-tempered, direct, and has a way with words, in that you know exactly what he’s thinking at any given moment.
This is why Hem is the president and Shame is vice president. And this works to their club’s advantage: each man in their position complements the other.
Lights of Peril runs as a clean, well-oiled and heavily manned ship. The men they have are good men. Which is to say, they don’t get as dirty as they need to be to make the money they could make.
Doc, the former Peril president, knew Pop. In a chance meeting at a MC rally, the two met and became friends. Being they had a lot in common in way of new clubs, members, and whatever else, they stayed in touch. Through the years, they leaned on each support. I’m banking on this past friendship to help until Saint’s can stand alone, or have the bankroll given by the Russians to get what needs gotten.
“We’re only askin’ for their presence around here for a couple weeks, month tops. We make sure it’s leaked to Bynes that we’ve bedded with another MC, especially
one like Peril. He’ll rethink before makin’ a move for Cricket,” Sty assures. “We can work this plan.”
“Leglas,” I call, and he turns his disapproving glare my way. “What else is on your mind?”
“I’m not goin’ to Ohio,” he dictates.
“No?” I return.
Shaking his head, leveling his glare to mine, he says, “With Mia still here and the way Tyrant’s been actin’, I don’t get a good feel. And I’m not letting Cricket be watched by prospects. Max, Wilson, and Blaze aren’t worth much at this point.”
It takes great effort, but I manage to hide my initial response to his statement. Leglas has never showed a genuine care in regards to Cricket. He fucks her, he’s all but taken her for his, but he also treats her with much less than she deserves.
“Good call,” I merit. “Then you’ll hang back.”
“Obliged,” he returns, though sarcastically.
“If Leglas is stayin’ here, then I’m goin’ with,” Vante puts in.
“I’ll go as well,” Sty asserts. “Sunny’ll be pissed, but she’ll deal.”
“Pyke and I will hang back here as well,” Advay informs. “Leglas is right. Tyrant’s an unknown at this point, and I don’t trust him.”
“All right,” I stand to close the meet. “Anything else?”
Headshakes seen, scuffing of chairs heard, I step back and head toward the door.
“She’s crying again,” Ziah explains, standing at my side. “She does this sometimes,” he tells me.
“What do you mean ‘this’? She does what sometimes?”
“Cricket gets really sad. She cries. Then, later, after she’s done, she’s happy again. I don’t understand.”
We’re standing in the door to another game room, this one toward the back of the clubhouse. I’ve never been back here, but Vante with a few of the other men, were playing video games as I worked the bar. A few of them started yelling, tossing their remotes to the floor. Vante threw his super sweet smile in my direction and asked that I go back and look for a ‘part’ that worked. As I take in the room, Cricket’s sitting in alone, and I’m holding one of their remotes in my hand. I have no clue what it is, but all thoughts of video games no longer matter.
“How often does this happen?”
Ziah shrugs, his expression sad, clearly affected by what he sees.
“Just sometimes,” he answers, this time with waning patience. “I thought maybe you know, ‘cause she’s a girl, and crying is a girl thing, but she does it a lot. None of the other girls do it as much as she does.”
“Girls are emotional,” I tell him. “We all do this.”
“Girls are weird,” he corrects.
At Ziah’s concerned voice, Cricket looks up. Her eyes are red and swollen. Her cheeks are streaming with tears. She attempts a broken smile, whether for my sake or Ziah’s, my heart splinters inside my chest.
“Here,” I hand Ziah the remote. “Find one in here just like this one. Take it to Vante and tell him I had to run to my room.”
Ziah’s brown eyes look up; concern still present but also hope. “Will you stay with her?”
“Yes,” I tell him, squeezing his shoulder for reassurance. “Just get back to Vante as soon as you can.”
Ziah’s relief is evident. He wraps his small arms around my waist, pulls me to him as close as he can get, and utters, “Fix her.” After, he rifles through a blue plastic container full of remotes, just the same as the one in his other hand. He grabs two, checks for something on the back of each, and then runs out the door.
Once he’s far enough down the hall, I step further into the room. The large flat screen on the wall is turned off. The lights of the room are dim except for one overhead. Like the front room, thin film covers windows along long wall. There’s a small bar at the end of the room, just big enough to house two stools.
Cricket sits on a black leather couch, facing the television. She’s twisting a tissue in her hands at the same time she lets off a gut-wrenching sob.
Even in the short time I’ve come to know her, I’ve come to appreciate the vibrant, carefree way she carries herself.
Shaking her head, looking down at a tattered Kleenex, she assures, “I’m okay. I’m fine.”
“Can I sit?” I question softly.
Nodding, she points to the cushion at her side. I take a seat, resting on its edge as she is and wait.
“God, I’m such an idiot,” she starts, shaking her head and looking to her lap. “I must look ridiculous.”
“You don’t look ridiculous. You look upset.”
“I’m an idiot,” she says again.
As I sit at her side, I take a closer look. Cricket’s neck is red, and there’s a dark purple spot on the side near her ear. Not a bruise, but a hickey. I hadn’t noticed it this morning, but her hair was down. Now it’s up in a ponytail that’s falling at the sides.
“You slept in El’s room last night?” she questions, her face lighting up as she remembers.
Nodding, I roll my eyes. “He put me there.”
Cricket laughs, the sound broken from her crying jag. “I’ll bet he did. Bet he told you to stay there, too.”
Right again.
“Tell me what happened, why you’re crying,” I push then suggest, “Maybe I can help.”
As soon as I’ve said it, Cricket holds the tissue to her face and again starts to cry. This time she rocks her body back and forth. She’s also trembling.
“I l-love him,” she tells me. “I’ve al-al-always loved him.”
“Who?”
“He hates me. He won’t even look at me!” she shrieks, giving me no more information than I had.
“I don’t know who you’re—”
“Why?” she shrieks. Tilting her head to the ceiling, she asks, “Why does he hate me so much? I’ve done nothing but love him, Mia. Love him!”
“Leglas?”
Finally, Cricket settles. Bringing her head back to her lap, she shakes her head. “N-no.”
Uh oh. Someone else. Not good. Shit.
“Then who?”
Swallowing as though the act is pained, Cricket looks up and holds her focus to the television. Seconds pass and I wait.
As soon as my hand settles against her back, she gives a very quiet, and very direct, “Gypsy.”
I knew it.
“Gypsy,” I return as confirmation.
“I’ve loved him as long as I can remember. I’ve loved him since the day he found me.”
“He found you?”
Cricket nods and starts talking. Telling me the story of how she came to live at Saint’s, along with all the reasons for it.
Gypsy, as I suspected, is a decent man. He genuinely cares about people and he cares deep. But for reasons of his own, he’s hurting Cricket. He loves her, I’m guessing. But not in the way she wants. Which to be honest, I have no way to understand. I’ve never seen him with a woman at the club. I’ve never seen Gypsy so much as look at a woman here.
“If you love Gypsy, why are you with Leglas?”
Looking up, she pains me with an expression so sad and empty, I feel her emotion in my chest.
“Because Pop wanted me to be taken care of. He wanted me kept safe.”
And his son wasn’t in the right mind to do it, I assume but don’t say.
“And you’re crying now because…”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“I can try,” I offer, rubbing her back.
“Leglas hates Gypsy. I mean, they’re brothers so they live with each other. They deal. But Leglas hates him and I’m the cause.”
“He knows you love Gypsy,” I assume.
Cricket nods. “Gypsy ignores me. Ever since we…”
I wait patiently. Nothing comes so I prod, “Ever since what?”
Again, Cricket goes on to tell me not her story, but now Gypsy’s. He was in the army once, a long time ago. He served ten years, which included several tours overseas. Those he volunteered for. The ni
ght before he left for his first, Cricket gave him her virginity.
“I was young. And he had pushed me away. He kept pushing and pushing and I kept at him. I was desperate. I loved him and trusted him.”
I could see how a younger version of Cricket could certainly expel the energy it took to wear a man like him down. Gypsy figured he didn’t stand a chance against her determination.
I remember losing my virginity. I also remember the man who took it and how I felt after. Cricket’s experience and mine don’t compare at all. She loved Gypsy, gave him that gift for a reason.
“He was all I ever knew, apart from the men here. But he was different, I thought.”
“So you’re in here crying now because…”
“I still go to him sometimes. I make up reasons to talk to him. Even knowing he won’t talk to me. But I do this because I want to know he’s okay.”
“And you went to him today.”
Nodding, she explains, “He wasn’t alone.”
Shit.
“He was so mad at me for going to his room. I knew she was in there. I didn’t see her, but she’s not part of the club. He wouldn’t do that. Besides, he held the door tight so all I could see were her clothes on his floor.”
Damn it. That had to hurt in ways a man could never understand.
“He told me to go back to Leglas’ bed where I belonged.”
And that had to hurt so much more.
“Does Gypsy know how you feel about him?”
“I don’t know. But I don’t think it would matter if he did.”
Without giving more, she bends at the waist, sitting with her elbows rested to her knees. Her hands press against her forehead as she shakes her head. “This is all my fault. Everything is because of me.”
“Honey, you can’t think…”
“Arrows,” she states to my confusion. “That’s on me too. My dad is crazy.”
“Your dad?”
“He’s threatened the entire club. Elevent, Pop, Gypsy. All because of me.”
I don’t ask for further explanation, not because I don’t want to understand, but because I’m not sure how much more Cricket can handle.
“You’re not responsible for what other people do,” I reassure. “And you’re not to blame for loving someone the way you do.”