I needed to know what the hell had happened all those years ago that made him the way he was. I needed answers. And if it meant that tonight ended awkwardly or that we left without saying much of a word to each other, so be it. I couldn’t keep doing this dance of displaying interest, having it reciprocated, but then not going any further down the rabbit hole.
I didn’t glance back at Kathryn or Elizabeth as I backed out of the parking lot. Brock had gotten about a minute worth of driving on me, but by the time I cleared downtown Albuquerque, I’d caught up to him on I-40. I knew he could have easily gunned his motorcycle down the highway, leaving me both literally and metaphorically in the dust. It didn’t surprise me, knowing his personality, but it only made my feelings for him swell.
As I trailed him and saw the diamond-shaped outline of his back and head on that chopper, I thought about all the times Steele tried to get me on his bike. At first, he’d understood. Then, he’d teased. Later, he’d badgered. Eventually, he begged. Afterward, he yelled.
And finally, we broke up.
Steele thought that riding or not riding a bike was a matter of being scared or not scared, but that was a gross simplification. It was one thing for me to wish to live a little more unpredictably and on the edge; it was another to take on one of the most dangerous activities there was for a guy I wasn’t that attracted to.I can’t believe I just admitted that.
Had Steele given me time, had he let me realize my curiosity on my own, perhaps the story would be different. Probably not, but at least the odds would be greater in his favor.
Now, though, the odds were much higher with Brock than they were with Steele. Which was still low; five percent was significantly more likely than one percent. But with Brock…
Well, I guess I was willing to do more with Brock.
We passed by the gas station—there was no one there, other than someone outside the station smoking a cigarette—and drove into “downtown” Santa Maria. Though it only had two streets, some shops and bars here were well beyond what one would expect in a small town of a few thousand people. At one time, a little under ten years ago, there was talk that Santa Maria could become a bustling small town, a growing place where people priced out of Albuquerque could come to raise a family and grow a business.
And then a smattering of violence took place, the town’s reputation was ruined, and the few businesses that had opened in anticipation of what could be were now left with a mediocre version of their idealized selves.Wonder if that has anything to do with Brock’s reticence about the past. He was here then.
I pulled up to Buckhead Saloon, a bar that embodied the very mantra of “what could have been.” From the outside, the place looked enticing in all ways but one. There was an outdoor patio with many places to sit. Even from where I parked, I could see a dance floor, a couple of arcade machines, one of those worn-out, drop-down boxing bags that showed you how strong your punch was, and two different bar tops. So what was the one thing not enticing about it?
It was minutes before ten p.m. on a Friday night, and there were four people in there, including the one bartender.
“Just how I’d hoped,” Brock said as he removed his helmet.
He shook his head, letting his hair flop around. When his eyes settled back down and looked at me, I forgot anything behind me. I felt captivated, magnetically drawn to those blue eyes. I almost had to dig my feet into the gravel lot underneath me so I wouldn’t act like a massive idiot this early.
“You’ve been here before, right?” Brock said.
“A couple of times, but not in a while,” I said. “It looks more or less the same since Steele took me.”
“No surprise there, there’s no real reason to renovate in a place like this. Come on, let’s go grab a drink.”
Brock walked over to me and put his hand on the small of my back. As tall as he was, it required no awkward maneuvering, no leaning forward. But that didn’t make the gesture any less electric.
My hand awkwardly went to his lower back. If I mimicked his arm hanging there, I would have grabbed his ass, and while I was definitely in a place of privacy and arousal, there was a major difference between gradual flirtation and whoring myself out.
“What do you want?” Brock asked.
“Just…whatever.”
“Guinness?”
I chuckled.
“Nah, get me something cheap. I don’t care about the drinks.”
Brock smiled, headed to the bar, and faced no line as he caught the attention of the woman behind the counter. I barely had time to contemplate Brock’s demeanor and presence before he was walking back with the canned beers; Reapers, this was not.
“I don’t think I’ve had a beer from a can since my days at Rice parties,” I said with a widening smile.
“You said you didn’t care about the beer. I think it’s only fair that that encompasses what you drink the beer from.”
“So you’re saying if they had offered the beer in a hose, you would have said, ‘She doesn’t care, have it this way?’”
“Yes.”
I laughed much harder than I would have expected. I blamed it on the image of me drinking beer from a hose, but I knew why I’d laughed like that.
