3. Tank #2
"I tried. She didn't want to hear it."
"Can't blame her."
"I don't."
Silence settles between us. The cigarette's burning down to the filter. I drop it, crush it under my boot.
"You gonna see her again?" Rush asks.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because she doesn't want to see me. And she's right not to."
"That's shite reasoning."
I look at him. "She told me to get out, Rush. What am I supposed to do? Show up and make it worse?"
"I don't know. But giving up because you fucked up once seems like the coward's way out."
The words hit harder than they should. I'm not a coward. Never have been. But this—
This is different.
This is emotional territory I don't know how to navigate. Give me a fight, give me something physical, and I'm fine. But this vulnerable, apologizing, making-amends shite? I'm lost.
"She's better off without me," I say quietly.
"Maybe. But shouldn't that be her choice?"
Before I can respond, he pushes off the wall and heads back inside, leaving me alone with my thoughts again.
Better off without me.
It's true. I know it's true. Enya deserves someone whole, someone who won't bring ghosts to her bed. Someone who can give her more than I can.
But the thought of her with someone else—laughing, touching, being happy—makes me want to break things.
Which is selfish.
Which is exactly why I need to stay away.
* * *
The rest of the day drags. I work on my bike. It doesn't need it, but I need something to do with my hands. So I strip parts, clean them, and put them back together. Mindless. Mechanical. The kind of task that usually quiets my brain.
Not today.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her. The way she moved behind the bar. The sharpness of her tongue. The vulnerability underneath that armor.
The way she looked at me before I ruined it.
Cowboy wanders over eventually, toolbox in hand. "Need help?"
"I'm good."
"You look like shite."
"Thanks."
He drops down beside me anyway and starts handing me tools I don't need. "You were off your game in church. Heard you were also gone all night."
"Word travels fast."
"Always does." He's quiet for a minute, then says, "You want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Fair. But if you keep going like this, Pyro's gonna bench you. Can't have brothers distracted on runs."
He's right. I know he's right. But I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to stop thinking about her.
"I'll sort it," I say.
"Yeah?" Cowboy doesn't sound convinced. "Because you've been staring at that carburetor for ten minutes and haven't actually done anything with it."
I look down. He's right. The part's just sitting in my hand, forgotten.
Fuck.
"I'll sort it," I repeat, more to myself than to him.
He claps me on the shoulder. "Alright, brother. Just don't let whatever this is eat you alive. We need you sharp."
He leaves, and I'm alone again with the bike and my thoughts and the weight of knowing I'm letting the club down because I can't get a woman I barely know out of my head.
I want to text her. Want to call. Want to show up at O’Hara's and make her listen, make her understand that it wasn't about her. That she was—is...
What?
I don't even know.
I barely know her.
But it feels like I do. It feels like I've known her longer than a few hours. It feels like she matters in a way I can't explain and don't want to examine too closely.
By the time the sun sets, I'm exhausted. Bone-tired but too wired to sleep. I consider going back to O’Hara's. Consider finding her.
No.
She told me to leave. That means leave. That means don't come back. That means respect her enough to stay the fuck away.
Even if it's killing me.
I head to my room, strip down, lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. My phone's on the nightstand. I could get her number and text her. Just do something. Anything.
I'm sorry.
It wasn't about you.
You deserved better.
But what good would it do? Words can't fix what I broke. They can't undo the hurt I saw in her eyes.
Better to leave her alone.
Better to let her hate me.
She's safer that way. Better off.
I repeat it to myself until it almost sounds true.
Almost.
But when I close my eyes, all I see is her face. All I feel is the ache of wanting something I don't deserve and can't have.
And somewhere in the dark, Emma's ghost laughs.
* * *
Morning comes too soon. I didn't sleep. Barely dozed. When I finally drag myself out of bed, everything hurts, body, head, chest.
I make coffee. Burn toast. Stand at the window watching the city wake up and wonder what Enya's doing right now.
If she's thinking about me.
If she hates me as much as I hate myself.
Probably more.
My phone buzzes. Text from Pyro.
Need you on a run tonight. Be ready.
Work. Good. I can do work. I can focus on club business and pretend the rest doesn't exist.
I text back a thumbs up then pocket the phone.
Stay away from her, I tell myself. It's better this way.
She deserves better than a man haunted by ghosts he can't lay to rest.
Better than someone who'll hurt her without meaning to.
Better than me.
I believe it.
I have to believe it.
But it doesn't stop the ache in my chest every time I think about never seeing her again.
It doesn't stop me from wanting what I can't have.
It doesn't stop the way her name, her real name, Enya, has carved itself into my bones.
I'm fucked.
Completely fucked.
And there's not a damn thing I can do about it.