They eventually leave, and some doctor guy shows up to check me out. He asks a million questions and draws some blood andtakes my urine. He gives me some supplements along with some antibiotics for my hand and a bottle of pills that are supposed to help someone going through withdrawal. Except I’m not. That asshole Tyrant will make sure I stay on the hook.
My skin is all goosebumps and shivers, but the pill he gave me is keeping the edge off for now. Until I need another. How long does he think we can keep this up before someone gets suspicious of him hanging around me? I don’t understand what his part in all of this is. It can’t be money. The club does business with the cartel, and by the looks of this place, they aren’t hurting for money.
I rinse my mouth, rub cold water in my eyes, and stare at myself again in the bathroom mirror. I look less haunted than last night. Or maybe it’s just the numbness settling in. I run my fingers through my hair. My hand throbs, but it’s manageable. I’ll give it to Celia. She knows hair.
I almost feel pretty. Almost.
When I come out, Lunatic’s in the room. He’s wearing his cut with a plain white tee under it that makes the dark ink on his arms stand out more than usual. He looks good. Too damn good.
Every nerve in my body goes on alert when he steps into my path, but I keep my chin up. If he’s going to do something, I’m not going out begging.
He takes one look at my new hair and whistles. “Damn, Babygirl. They gave you the full treatment, huh?”
I shrug. “Don’t get used to it. I’ll be dead in a week, anyway.”
Lunatic’s mouth quirks up on one side like he finds my pessimism endearing. “Come on. Let’s go eat. I’m fuckin’ famished.”
He takes my right hand in his left and gives me a reassuring squeeze. He doesn’t treat me like I’m some dirty whore. It’s confusing. I don’t know how to read him. Is he really this nice, or is it all an act to soften me up? To gain my trust, so that I’lltell him every dark and dirty secret I’ve not shared with another soul.
I think he’s just taking me down to the kitchen so when he takes me outside to his bike I’m confused. “Where are we? Are we allowed?”
“You’re not a prisoner here, Daisy. If you want to walk out that gate and down that road without looking back, you’re free to go. No one in this club is going to stop you, but I can’t guarantee your safety if you do.”
I lick my lips and stare at the open gate. I could run, sure. But where would I go and how far would I make it before a bullet hits me square between my eyes?
It’s harder than it should be to ignore the way his hand hasn’t let go of mine since we left the house. I want out of here, but I also want to find out what the fuck it means that he keeps holding on, like I’m some lost girl who needs a chaperone. Maybe I am.
Like he can hear my thoughts, he releases his hold on me. Silence stretches between us as the sun shines down on us and the birds in the trees around us sing. Lunatic stands here with his hands in his pockets, waiting, like he is utterly indifferent to whether I run or not.
Two years ago, I’d have bolted. Shit, maybe even last week. But something in me is different now, or maybe it’s just that I’m tired of waking up every day stuck between fight or flight. I can hear the phone in the bathroom drawer, calling me back like a leash, like Hector’s invisible hand on the small of my back, ready to yank. Ready to control, ready to punish me the second I piss him off.
“I could eat.”
“All right, Babygirl. Let’s eat.” He hands me a helmet.
I climb on his bike with him, and we roar through the gate and back to the highway. For a minute, I truly do feel free. The windwhips through my hair. My mind goes blank and I don’t have to think.
I get to enjoy the ride.
Lunatic takes us out past the edge of town to a mom-and-pop place that looks like it hasn’t changed since the ‘60s. Chrome barstools, checkered tile, and a jukebox that only plays classic rock. A couple of burly bikers in cuts nod to Lunatic when we come in, but otherwise nobody gives us a second look.
He picks a booth at the back. His eyes do a sweep of the parking lot through the window before he slides into the seat across from me. I peel the laminated menu open. It’s all burgers, shakes, and fried everything. My stomach’s not sure if it wants to devour the whole page or turn itself inside out from the stress.
A middle-aged waitress comes over, pen tucked behind her ear. “What’ll it be, honey?” She asks me, and I have to remember it’s fine to answer. That no one’s going to slap me if I get it wrong.
“Um…”
“Bring us some coffee. We need a minute.”
“Sure thing, sugar.” She winks and returns just as fast with a pot and two mugs.
“Take your time,” he tells me as I scan the menu again.
“What’s good?”
“All of it,” he laughs, but not at me.
Chapter Seven
