I shake my head, emotions churning inside me. Anger—at what she’s been through. Fury—that her baby has been through this with her. And rage—all shades of the same color, but each one darker than the next. The uncontrollable side of me, the side I suppress, is raging up like a Florida storm. I’ve got to focus. Food. Not fists. Not fury. Dinner.
“Claire,” I say firmly, dragging my emotions down to a manageable level. “I’m going to go to a diner and get you a nice meal. They have burgers, roast beef, turkey, salads. You a vegan or anything?”
She presses her lips together and shakes her head. “No.”
“You like fries? Soup? What do you want?”
She looks scared again. “I don’t have…” She glances down at all the bags. “I don’t have money for all this,” she says quietly. “For this stuff. For dinner. I have nothing, Savage.”
I nod. “I know that. And until you do, I’m taking care of everything. I have money, Claire. And I’m happy to spend it on baby food and diapers and dinner. So, I’ve just got to know what I’m ordering for you.”
She sucks her lower lip into her mouth and cocks her chin at me. “Why?” she asks, her voice a raspy whisper. “Why are you doing this? Because if you…if you expect me… I’m not that.” She stands a little straighter, her voice rising. “Anthony was my boyfriend. I wasn’t?—”
I hold up a hand to silence her, but then I realize she might think I’m threatening her. I shove my hands into my pockets. “I don’t care if you’re a sex worker, a girlfriend, whatever. No woman, and I mean no woman, deserves to be hurt by anyone, especially not someone she loves.”
I realize I’m fisting my hands in my pockets so hard, I’m straining the denim. I try to relax. Think calmer thoughts.
“Someday, we’ll talk. But not today. All you need to know right now is I’m helping you because once there was a woman I could not help. I tried.” I blink hard and squint against a firestorm of memories. “But I couldn’t. I’m helping you now. No questions asked. No debt owed. I have money saved, and I’ll help you get on your feet. And I won’t expect a goddamn thing in return. You hear me? No one will lay a hand on you forany reason, in any way, while you’re under my protection. Are we clear on that?”
She studies my face for a moment, and before dropping down on the bed, her shoulders sag. “I don’t understand.”
I take the burner phone and toss it onto the bed next to her. “That’s for you,” I tell her. “You’re not a prisoner here. You’ve got people to call, make the call. You want to leave, the door’s wide open. But if you don’t, you stay here while you figure out your next move.” I point to the phone. “I programmed in my number and Phantom’s. He runs this place, so if I’m not available, there are other people who will step in.”
She looks at the phone, then at me. The look of doubt on her face is so obvious and clear, I want to reassure her, but I know I can’t. She’s going to have to learn to trust me. And that shit’s going to take time.
“Thank you,” she finally says, her voice a meek whimper.
I turn to go, but then I remember. Food. “I’m going to the diner, so tell me what you like or you’ll be stuck eating whatever I get.”
“Could I have a burger?” I can hardly hear her, but I strain my ears. “And maybe a Coke?”
“Fuck…ahhhh, yes. Heck yes. Definitely a Coke and a burger.” I don’t know what babies understand, but the hardest part of all this is going to be watching my language. I turn to leave but then realize I didn’t ask the most important question. “Claire,” I say, one hand on the doorframe. “You want regular or sweet potato fries?”
“Prospect, on your feet.”I point at one of the new guys slouched down on a sectional playing video games. “We’re making a run.”
The other prospects turn and look at us, a little curious and a lot jealous.
The new guy, whose club name is Tank, hoists himself up from the couch. “You got it, boss.”
Almost a year ago, we turned over all the prospects we had when one of them named Dylan got himself mixed up in drugs and some drama with Phantom’s ex. Since then, we’ve recruited a bunch of new guys. Some of them, I think, are going to make it. Some won’t. Tank’s the one I trust the most, and as always, he doesn’t ask questions.
Tank’s name is fitting. The guy is huge. Shorter than me but wide in every way. He ambles over and tugs a black bandana over his buzz cut. “Who’s drivin’, boss?”
“Me.” I grab a set of keys to a pickup truck from the lockbox on the wall, and we head out to the lot.
I call in an order and add Tank’s usual to it. We make the first few minutes of the ride in silence, but eventually, Tank’s asking the questions that I am sure are on everyone’s minds.
“Lady and a baby, huh?” He stares out the window into the darkness.
I grunt, but then chuckle. “I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking.” I do, actually, but I’m not about to share that with anyone, let alone a prospect.
Tank’s quiet, tapping his fingers lightly on the door, his meaty hand partly out the window. He nods, lost in thought or just respecting the fact that we don’t have the kind of relationship that invites him in.
“With an eye like that…” he says quietly. “I hope that I would step in and be a hero like that for someone. I don’t know if I would’ve gotten involved.”
I suppose this should be a teachable moment. A moment where I share the club values with this prospect. Tell him what kind of man I am and what kind of person I’d expect him to be. But I’m not that guy. Not anymore. I spent years following orders. Knowing my place. Helping new recruits not get their asses kicked and sometimes doing the ass-kicking. Now, I’m no role model. I’m no leader. I’m just doing what I can to get by without blowing up any more land mines in the landscape of my life.
“We never know who we are until life forces our hand,” I say.
