Humbug
Girl shouldn’t be in my truck. Pretty thing in a red coat, long legs poking out, brown eyes too bright for midnight. Way too young for me. But when she stood there outside the bar, arms wrapped around herself like she could hold all that adrenaline in, I couldn’t leave her.
The cops did their song and dance, asked if I’d used “excessive force.” Hell, I could’ve used more.
Carol. Her name fits in my mouth like something worth sinning over. Twenty-two, all sugar and soft edges, but she didn’t crumble. When that punk pointed the gun, she moved smart. Quick. Brave. The sound of glass shattering still echoes within me. Her ashtray swing had perfect follow-through.
She’s looking out the window now, dark hair haloed by the dash lights, and every nerve in me wants to touch her. Not just want. Ache. Haven’t felt that in a long damn time.
Trina’s voice ghosts in my head. You’re poison, Jack. Everything you touch, you destroy.
Maybe she’s right. But Carol doesn’t look ruined. She looks alive.
We hit the edge of town, snow starting again, and I take the back road that snakes toward the Executioners’ compound. The world narrows to headlights on white.
“You always take strangers home?” she asks.
“Only the ones that bleed on my watch,” I say. “You didn’t. But close enough.”
“I’m not your responsibility.”
I glance over. “Too late.”
She exhales like she’s fighting a laugh and loses. It’s small, nervous, but real. That sound shouldn’t make my chest tighten, but it does. My pants tighten, too.
The clubhouse glows ahead, converted barn, big iron doors, bikes lined like steel horses under snow. Music leaks from inside, none of that Christmas shit. I park by the side entrance.
“Stay close,” I tell her.
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
She rolls her pretty eyes but follows. The bar inside looks like trouble. Smells worse. A few brothers glance up, none ask questions when they see me bring in the girl. But I know I won’t hear the end of it later.
I nod at Frost, the enforcer on duty, and he nods back, silent understanding.
Later.
I lead her past the main room, down the short hall to the spare quarters I’ve been using. Small bed, space heater, nothing fancy.
“You can crash here,” I tell her.
She hesitates at the doorway. “You trust me?”
“I don’t keep anything worth stealing,” I say, about to laugh at the irony. I should be asking her if she trusts me.
“That’s not what I meant.”
I meet her eyes. “Yeah. I trust you.”
She steps inside, brushes her fingers over the blanket and momentarily, I forget how to breathe.
“They’re clean,” I say. “Just washed… Not that they were dirty.” I didn’t want her to think I had a woman in here. “I own a garage.”
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
I nod once and turn to go. If I stay, I’ll do something I can’t take back.
“Wait.”
Her voice stops me cold. I turn. She’s standing there, nervous but steady. “What about you?”
“I’ll grab the couch.”
“You got blood on your knuckles.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“Let me clean it.”
I should say no. Instead, I watch her cross the room, take my hand like it belongs to her. She leads me to the small bathroom, grabs a towel from the wall. Hot water, soft pressure. She smells like peppermint and fear fading into something else that tastes like want.
“This part of the job?” she asks.
The job? I hesitate. “What do you mean?”
“Being a biker?”
“Just instinct.”
“You could’ve been killed.”
“Would’ve been easier.”
Her gaze snaps up. “Don’t say that.”
“I’ve been saying worse for years.”
Carol opens drawers and finds gauze. She wraps my hand.
When she ties the knot, her fingers linger.
That’s when I notice she’s bleeding, too.
Just a scratch, probably from the glass breaking.
I take her hand and clean it the way she did mine.
My hand doesn’t leave hers when I’m finished, either. I should step back. I don’t.
“Carol,” I start, but the name comes out rough.
She looks up, her brown eyes reflecting a man I once was, and the world narrows again.
Her sweet lips part, a breath between us, and I don’t even remember closing the distance. My kiss isn’t gentle. It’s what happens when two people stop pretending they’re okay. My tongue thrusts, and her mouth opens wider. She tastes like peppermint and sugar, like the edge of survival.
Damn, I want to throw her against the bathroom sink and rip her clothes off. My hands find her hips as I growl into her mouth.
She pulls back, her eyes wide. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“You kissed me back.”
“I’m supposed to be with someone.”
“So am I.”
The honesty hits like a gunshot. For a heartbeat, we just stare, two liars who told one truth.
Then she whispers, “I don’t care right now.”
“I don’t either.” My hands find her waist, slide under the hem of her sweater. Her skin’s tight, soft, warm. I sense her pulse quickening against my fingertips.
The heater hums. The snow outside thickens against the window. For a moment, we move together, body against body, like we’re still riding the adrenaline high, like we both need proof we’re alive.
But she stops me with a hand on my chest. “Not tonight,” she says.
I nod, though every muscle argues. “Get some rest.”
She gives a small smile that could melt ice. “You too, Humbug.”
I step out before I forget how to walk away.