A slight furrow in her brow appears, the one she gets when she’s irritated. I assume my vagueness has annoyed her. However, she resists the urge to ask me any further questions. Either she knows I won’t tell her, or she just really doesn’t want to speak to me. I’m guessing a bit of both.
When she’s finished eating, I say, “Ready to go?” trying to keep my voice as light as I can, which is to say, not very, since I’m not a light and cheerful guy.
“Sure, you got my keys?” she asks. I recently confiscated her bike keys from her to stop her from doing something stupid like going out alone and getting herself captured or killed by the Rusted Scythes.
“I do. But you’re not getting them. There’s no way I’m letting you drive today. You still smell like a brewery. There’s no way all that alcohol is out of your system.”
“Like you didn’t drink a ton last night, too, hypocrite!”
“I’m twelve years older than you, and a hundred pounds heavier which means I’ve had a lot more practice on how to hold my liquor and sober up the next day,” I point out. I cringewhen I say the age gap out loud. She might have said she wanted me, wanted us, when she was drunk, but she can’t really. She probably wants a man her own age. “So, we can take the car, or we can go on my bike, up to you, but you’re not driving today. It’s either that or we stay home,” I add when I see her preparing to argue why she should drive.
I’ve never met anyone who loves riding their motorcycle as much as I do. It’s one of the things I like the most about Naomi. As I expected, and hoped, she opted to go on the back of my bike. “I guess being on the back of a bike is better than a car,” she grumbles.
***
The entire ride to the rehab clinic, all I can think about is how good it feels to have her arms wrapped around my waist, to feel her body pressed against mine. I feel disappointed when we finally arrive. The lingering warmth of her body remains, a ghost of her that I wonder whether it will haunt me forever, leaving me yearning and wanting until the next time I can touch her.
I can hardly focus on anything but her throughout the visit. Thankfully, she’s so happy to see her brother that I’m not expected or required to participate much in the conversation. However, toward the end of the visit, the talk turns to the Rusted Scythes MC.
Eli turns to me, the bruises on his face have now faded to yellow, giving him a jaundiced appearance. He seems exhausted, and I prepare to say no if he asks to leave soon. “Ace, there’s something I need to tell you. Something I should have told you before,” he tentatively begins, picking at a hangnail and drawing a small bead of blood. “But, well, to be honest, I wasn’t sure if I could trust you, not until I had seen Naomi was in safe hands.”
“Alright,” I say carefully, unfolding my arms. “That’s understandable.” As far as he was concerned, at best, I’m a stranger to him, at worst, the enemy. I don’t blame him for exercising caution, especially when his sister’s welfare is at stake.
Eli nods, relief flooding his face. “I wasn’t totally honest about why the Rusted Scythes won’t just let me and Naomi get away, even if we paid them back the money I took. While I was working on their systems, I found something out…” he pauses.
“Go on,” I encourage him.
“I uncovered evidence of trafficking. The club was involved in some dark shit. I copied some of the data before they caught me—enough to make anyone who knows about it a target. They won’t stop looking for us until they have all of the evidence, or they kill us.”
“Where’s this evidence now?” I ask. “We could take down the Rusted Scythes once and for all with it.”
“It’s safe. But I’m not gonna give it to you. Not until I’m out of here and I have certain guarantees. This thing is big. I’m pretty sure there are cops in on it, maybe even spies in your club, too. We only get one shot at doing this, we gotta do it right.”
“You can trust me,” I say.
Eli shakes his head.
When I try to press him further, he clams up. My frustrated attempts to get him to talk become loud enough to attract the attention of a stony-faced nurse, who crisply informs me that visiting hours are over, and her stern reprimand is enough to force us to leave begrudgingly.
As we’re leaving, the skies blacken and an ominous crack of thunder heralds rain. I thought my foul mood couldn’t get any worse, but I was wrong.
On the ride home, the rain quickly becomes a downpour akin to a tropical storm, and within minutes we’re soaked through and shivering. We ride in silence, heads down, trying to ignore the sharp sting of raindrops that stab like knives against our skin. Without realizing I’m doing it, my speed increases. My coping mechanism when I’m stressed, frustrated, or angry is to go on a crazy fast ride on my motorcycle, no matter the weather. I’d almost forgotten Naomi was on the back until I feel her pummeling at my back with her fists, yelling into the wind over the roar of the storm for me to slow down.
When we make it home, Naomi hurls herself off the bike and runs inside in a blur. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” she snaps, rounding on me the moment I step over the threshold. “You could have killed us riding like that in the rain!”
“I know, I’m sorry. I was just frustrated with your brother. I can’t believe he—”
Naomi cuts me off. “That he what? Won’t give you literally the only thing that’s keeping him alive right now? Or are you so proud, so confident in your abilities that you don’t realize the Rusted Scythes could know exactly where he is right now and are just waiting for him to reveal to you where the information is?”
I hadn’t thought of that, but she’s right. Of course she is. If I let myself believe I’m infallible, I’m even more likely to fail. As is far too often the case, what comes out of my mouth is in complete contrast to the logical reasoning side. “Or your brother has ulterior motives and is still working for the Rusted Scythes.”
“Are you even capable of trusting people? Of forming new relationships without thinking the worst of people? Christ, let me guess, do you think I’m a Rusted Scythes spy, here to try to get close to you for intel?” she sneers, hitting very close to the mark of exactly what I considered when she first arrived.
“Of course I’m capable, but trust is earned. And if you’re a spy, you’re not very good at it,” I add with a small smile, taking the wind out of her sails. She wasn’t expecting this. She was expecting my usual hot-headed, argumentative response.
All I can think while she’s raging at me is how beautiful she is, standing there, half drenched to the skin, and filled with righteous fury. Under the spell she’s woven over me, or perhaps I’m just tired of fighting how I feel, I finally give in and admit to myself that I want Naomi.
“Fuck you,” she snarls, still the fiery wildcat I’ve grown fond of.
