Like every other bike ride, the woman sat behind me, her arms wrapped around me. But whereas previous bike rides might have felt more erotic and exciting, this one felt more loving and caring. Lilly’s arms felt less sexual and more compassionate, like she was holding me in support, not in sexual arousal. It was nice, sure.
But the problem was that my mind, perhaps jolted by the power of the bike, was turning from sadness and self-pity to anger and determination. Why the fuck did I have to tell Lane everything?
The answer was I didn’t. I didn’t have to fucking tell him everything. I had to tell him mission-relevant matters, but I didn’t have to tell him this shit. Lilly wasn’t a spy. She wasn’t going to tell her father everything. She was going to escape him and never talk to him again.
I was sick to my stomach. I was getting too angry, too emotional, too fired up... sure, Lane had matured a little, but he was still the overbearing brother. It was just now, instead of mocking me and then keeping his distance, he was scolding me. He was trying to take the place of my father. I didn’t need to be fucking patronized.
He’s not. He’s caring. You’re just pissed to hide the sadness.
Shut the fuck up. He’s an ass.
I needed to be my own man. I needed to escape. Maybe I needed to just fucking ride to New Mexico with Lilly. Maybe that’s what I would do.
Instead of running to the neighborhood over from Lane, I’d run multiple states over. I’d leave his sorry ass behind for good so I wouldn’t feel the temptation or even the ability to help him in the next skirmish. I wouldn’t build a club with the leftovers of the Black Reapers; I’d build a brand-new club from scratch, one that didn’t know who or what the Black Reapers or the Fallen Saints were.
And then, maybe then, I could finally get past this whole shit of having insecurity of attachment.
Or maybe that’s a problem you just need to solve now. Why would running farther do you any good?
I stopped thinking about things when that thought hit my mind. It was too depressing to realize that my anger wasn’t going to drive me to someplace good, but rather, just put me right back into the cycle of avoidance-anger-acceptance that didn’t really get me anywhere.
Although traffic was, as usual, a bitch, it was not so bad that I ever feared Lilly would not get on the train. We arrived about an hour before her departure time. She hopped off the bike and put her hand on my shoulder.
“Thank you,” she said. “Seriously. Thank you. For getting me here.”
But this wasn’t enough. I’d taken her as far as I could have gotten her.
“Thank me when you get to safety.”
“But how?” she said. “How will I reach you?”
I bit my lip. She didn’t want to reach out to me. No, she didn’t.
I sped off without another word. It was so petulant and so childish. But if I stayed any longer, the pain would become too great.
The pain was already terrible enough. I’d lost the club. I’d lost Lilly. I’d lost my sense of self-respect.
I was not going to show up to the club meeting tomorrow. I was not going to stay in Southern California. I didn’t know where I was going.
But I knew that for as long as I refused to face these issues in my head, it didn’t matter what I did with my life. I’d still have to live with myself.
