Then I lose count.
I start coming to Sins & Spirits three, sometimes four times a week. Always in the evening, after my shifts or on my days off. Always to that corner booth where Crave sits, a king surveying his kingdom.
We talk.
God, we talk about everything.
About death, which he seems to have an intimate understanding of, that goes beyond philosophy. About meaning and purpose in a world that seems determined to grind both down to nothing. About loneliness, the kind that comes from being surrounded by people who will never truly understand you.
He never tells me much about himself. Never reveals where he’s from, how old he is, or what he did before the motorcycleclub, but he drops hints. Little pieces of a puzzle I’m desperate to solve.
“How long have you owned this place?” I ask one night.
“Long enough to know every crack in the foundation.”
“I thought this place was new?”
Crave shakes his head. “No, we’ve been here a long time. Hex, our resident computer wizard, thought we should advertise to increase business.”
I cast a look around the room, taking in not only the MC members but the public. “Seems like it’s working. How long did you say you’d been here?”
Crave smirks. “I didn’t.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
“Do you have family?”
His expression goes dark. “Not anymore.”
“What happened?”
“I left them a long time ago.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to be something other than what they made me.”
I wait for him to elaborate, but he takes a sip of his drink and changes the subject.
Always changing the subject when I get too close to the truth about him.
But despite his evasiveness, or maybe because of it, I find myself drawn deeper into his orbit.
There’s something about Crave that makes me feel seen in a way I never have before. He seems to understand the weight of carrying too much death on your shoulders. It feels as though he’s walked through his own hell and come out the other side still standing.
Plus, there’s the way he looks at me.
Like, I’m the most fascinating thing he’s encountered in years.
As though he wants to devour me whole.
And terrified to touch me again.
We never touch after that first night. Never shake hands, brush shoulders, or lean too close. There’s always a careful distance between us, as if we’re both aware that contact could be dangerous.
I should probably find that concerning.
