And I hate that I want more.
3
TANK
Idon't go home.
I can't face the empty flat, the silence, the way my own thoughts'll eat me alive in that space.So I ride.Through the rain, through streets that blur into gray nothing, until my hands are numb on the handlebars and my clothes are soaked through.
Emma.
I said Emma.
The name loops in my head like a curse, over and over, until I want to smash something just to make it stop.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Three years.Three fucking years since I've let myself think about her, say her name, let her ghost anywhere near the surface.I buried that pain so deep I thought it couldn't reach me anymore.
Wrong.
So fucking wrong.
By the time I pull up to the clubhouse, dawn's breaking; weak, watery light that does nothing to cut through the gray.The place is quiet.Most of the lads are still asleep or crashed wherever they ended up last night.Just the way I want it.
I kill the engine and sit there for a minute with rain dripping off my jacket onto the gravel.
My jaw aches.I’ve been clenching it so hard I'm surprised my teeth haven't cracked.
I can still see Enya's face.The way she went from wild and wanting to frozen in half a second.The hurt in her eyes before the anger took over.
Get out.
Her voice was so cold.Like I'd reached inside her chest and ripped something out.
Maybe I did.
I drag myself off the bike, every muscle protesting.My body's still keyed up from her—from touching her, tasting her, feeling her move beneath me—and it makes me sick.Makes me want to tear my own skin off.
She deserved better than that.
Better than me bringing my dead past into her bed.
Inside, the clubhouse smells like stale beer and smoke.Someone left pizza boxes on the bar and there are empty bottles everywhere.Home sweet fucking home.
I head straight for my room in the clubhouse.It’s small and sparse, with just a bed and a dresser.There’s nothing personal because I don't do personal.I strip out of my wet clothes and stand there in the dark, water pooling at my feet, fists clenched at my sides.
Emma.
Why did I say her name?
I wasn't even thinking about her.Not consciously.I was there, present, focused entirely on Enya—the way she smelled, the sounds she made, the heat of her skin.I wanted her.I wanted her more than I'd wanted anyone in years.
And then my mouth betrayed me.
Betrayed us both.
I pull on dry clothes—jeans, t-shirt, doesn't matter—and sink onto the edge of the bed, head in my hands.
