"Maybe. Or maybe I'm just a coward who couldn't commit." She wipes at her eyes. "That's what my mother's messages say. That I'm being dramatic. That I'm embarrassing everyone. That Derek's worried sick and I need to come home and fix this."
"Fuck what your mother says."
She looks up, surprised at the vehemence in my voice.
"Fuck her," I say again. "And fuck Derek. And fuck anyone who thinks you should go back to someone who hurts you. You're not a coward. You're a survivor. And you did the hardest fucking thing there is, you walked away."
"You don't know me well enough to say that."
"Don't need to. I know enough."
She's quiet for a long moment. "Why are you really helping me? And don't say it's just because you can. Nobody does this much for a stranger without a reason."
Because I see myself in you. Because I know what it's like to have nowhere to go. Because something about you makes me want to protect instead of destroy, and that's rare enough that I'm not going to ignore it.
But I don't say any of that.
"Does it matter?" I ask instead.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I need to know if I can trust you."
Fair question. If I were in her position, I'd be asking the same thing.
"You can trust me," I say. "I'm not gonna hurt you. Not gonna let anyone else hurt you either. That's a promise."
"Promises don't mean much. Derek made a lot of promises."
"I'm not Derek."
"I know. You're different. I just..." She trails off. "I don't know what different looks like anymore. Don't know what safe feels like. Derek made sure of that."
I stand up, needing to move before I do something stupid like cross the room and pull her into my arms. "You should eat. Get some rest. We'll figure out the rest tomorrow."
"Wait." She stands too, wobbling slightly on her injured feet. "Don't go yet. Please."
"Savannah—"
"Just a few more minutes. I know I'm asking a lot. I know you've already done more than enough. But I don't want to be alone right now. And you're the only person in this entire city who I don't have to pretend with."
Fuck.
I sit back down. "Fifteen minutes. Then I need to make some calls, let my president know what's going on."
"Okay. Fifteen minutes." She sits on the edge of the bed again. "Will you tell me about the club? About the Steel Sinners?"
"What do you want to know?"
"Anything. Everything. I don't know anything about motorcycle clubs except what I've seen in movies."
"Movies get it wrong, mostly."
"So, tell me what's right."
I spend the next fifteen minutes giving her the sanitized version. The club, the brotherhood, the casino business. I leave out the darker shit—the protection rackets, the deals with other clubs, the violence that comes with the territory.
