“We do nothing else until the fucking Bandits are gone,” Brock said rather forcefully. “One fucking thing at a time.”
He stepped away from me.
“Everything you said, say it in a concise manner at church,” he said. “You brought up some…some points.”
Won’t admit they’re good points. That’s fine. I get it.
“Will do.”
Brock then turned the corner, returning to the clubhouse, leaving me standing outside of the repair shop after an exhausting prior night and current morning. I was exhausted after that conversation, concerned that what had started as a rally following Cole’s coma had now turned into a current that we struggled to fight against. What would we do without reinforcements?
What would the Bandits dowithreinforcements?
The prospect seemed a little terrifying and more than a little concerning. It was the kind of shit that I would have strongly liked to have believed would not happen, but in my experience, the very thing people most wished to not happen was usually the very thing that wound up happening. If I couldn’t get Brock to prepare immediately, I could get those around me to.
I stepped back to my bike for some privacy and texted Justine.
“That weirdo from last week? You need to be careful. Think there’s something going on with organized crime in the area. Wouldn’t be surprised if he was connected to it.”
Maybe Brock was right. It was just some dude with an odd fetish for women in doctor’s outfits, Justine would get pestered, but no violence or kidnapping would come of it.
But if I was right, then I might have just saved her a whole lot of heartache and difficulty.
To my surprise, though, Justine’s text bubble popped back up immediately.
“Got it, thanks.”
I was about to put my phone away, satisfied with the response, when I saw her typing again. But this time, the message did not come immediately. I waited with some annoyance, wanting to either get the chance to study or to just kick back at the clubhouse, but finally, the message came through.
“I worry that I rushed into things too quickly with you these past few hours. I would like us to slow down and see if there is anything to this beyond arousal. Sorry, hope you understand.”
Any guy over the age of thirteen could read that for what it was. A rejection in as gentle and slow a fashion as possible.
And I was damn surprised to realize how much it hurt to read. I did not expect to be feeling how I did.
But I knew I’d just do the same thing I always did. I’d move on, I’d leave the door open for her, and I’d let whatever happen, happen.
“OK, sounds good.”
But as I walked to the clubhouse—craving a beer for some reason—I found that in this particular case, it wasn’t so easy to shake.
I could only hope that with the benefit of a little bit of time, I’d move forward.
But if my brain told me anything, it was that that might have just been a bit of wishful thinking.
