10. Darla #2
He didn’t look at me. His eyes were on Cap Guy, who still hadn’t let go.
“The lady said she’s not interested,” Axel said, voice flat and impossible to ignore.
For a half second, nobody moved. Then Blondie barked out a laugh, high and fake. “What’s it to you, Santa? Last call isn’t for an hour.”
Cap Guy squared up, not letting go of my wrist. “Why don’t you mind your own business, trailer trash?”
Axel smiled, but there was nothing warm in it. “I am.”
Blondie moved first, shoving me back into Cap Guy and turning his full attention on the incoming threat.
Axel never broke stride. He just stepped forward and, in a blur, drove his elbow into Blondie’s throat.
The sound was like a tree branch snapping.
Blondie dropped, clutching his neck, eyes bulging.
Cap Guy tried to let go, but my arm was still tangled in his. Axel grabbed him by the collar, jerked him off his feet, and buried a fist in his stomach. Cap Guy puked. Literally puked. It hit my boots, warm and sour. I would’ve laughed if I could breathe.
Pink Face tried to hit Axel from behind, but Axel spun, caught the punch, and twisted Pink Face’s arm behind his back until something popped. Pink Face screamed, but Axel shoved him into the nearest table, sending drinks flying and three regulars scattering.
Cap Guy tried to crawl away, but Axel stomped on his ankle, pinning him to the ground. Then he leaned in, real close, and whispered something I couldn’t hear.
Blondie was out cold, face mashed against the footrail, drooling onto the linoleum.
Pink Face was sobbing, his arm bent at a new angle, eyes wild with pain.
Axel stood up, dusted off his jacket, and looked at me.
“You okay?” he asked.
It wasn’t the words that got me—it was the way he said it. Like he actually wanted to know.
My hand shook as I tried to brush the hair from my eyes. “I’m fine,” I said, but I sounded as battered as the assholes on the floor.
Axel nodded, then looked at Heather. “You got a mop?”
She nodded, already moving. The bouncer started to push through the crowd, saw Axel’s cut, and stopped. He made a show of checking the IDs of the three guys on the floor, then turned to Heather.
“Club takes care of its own,” she said, voice calm as a lake.
The bouncer raised his hands, stepped back.
Axel turned to me. “You want a ride?”
I hesitated. I wanted to say no, to make a show of being tough, but all I could think about was the cold outside, the way my knees felt hollow, and the sound of Blondie’s windpipe folding in half.
I nodded.
He motioned for the exit, and we left, the silence in the bar following us out into the parking lot.
The air was sharp, biting through my shirt, and I wished I’d brought a jacket. Axel saw me shiver and stripped off his own, draping it over my shoulders before I could protest.
“Where to?” he asked, voice softer now.
I almost said “home,” but that wasn’t a place I wanted to go. Not yet.
“Anywhere,” I said. “Just not here.”
He nodded, and for the first time, I noticed the blood on his knuckles. It dripped onto the snow, bright and perfect.
He followed my gaze, then smiled, the same cold smile he’d given Cap Guy.
“Gonna be a cold ride. You ready?” he asked.
“No.”
He handed me a helmet. I put it on, climbed behind him, and wrapped my arms tight around his waist.
As we roared out of the lot, I looked back at the Pink Beaver, at the three broken boys, and the crowd pretending not to watch. I felt alive, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t want to die.
The wind whipped my hair, the world blurred, and I held on like the whole city was chasing us.
***
I expected him to take me somewhere illegal, or at least somewhere you had to sign a waiver to enter.
Instead, Axel pulled the Harley into the parking lot of the Waffle King, killed the engine, and sat there for a second like he was debating whether to go in or just set fire to the place.
The sign buzzed with half-dead letters, and the only other vehicle was a beat-up Crown Vic with a flat tire and a cross decal bleeding off the bumper.
He didn’t say anything, just handed me back his jacket and motioned to the door. I followed, arms still shaking a little from the cold or maybe the adrenaline.
The inside was even emptier than I remembered. Two waitresses, both working the counter, one old enough to have served my grandmother. The younger one was texting under the register, bored out of her skull.
Axel picked a booth in the corner, slid in, and let his back rest against the wall. I sat opposite, already regretting the vodka but too stubborn to admit I was out of my depth.
He studied the menu with the intensity of a bomb defuser, then ordered two coffees and a stack of pancakes with extra syrup. “Trust me,” he said. “Best thing on the menu.”
The silence stretched. I watched the window, saw the reflection of the Waffle King crown hovering over his head like a joke. He caught me staring.
“What?”
I shrugged, pretended I wasn’t fascinated by the way his knuckles were already turning purple. “Nothing. You just look like you belong here.”
He arched an eyebrow. “In a booth? Or in the middle of a crime scene?”
I smiled. “Both.”
He sipped his coffee, then set it down. “You always let strange men buy you drinks?”
“Only when I’m feeling self-destructive.”
He nodded, like that made perfect sense.
I picked at a sugar packet, torn between telling him to fuck off and never leave. Instead, I said, “You get beat up like that often?” I nodded at his hands, the cut still oozing on his right thumb.
He looked down, flexed his fingers. “It’s a hobby.”
The waitress brought the pancakes, set them in front of us with two forks, then disappeared. The smell was obscene—sugar and butter, a heart attack in three layers. He dug in, and I followed, surprised at how good it was. We ate in silence for a while, and the world outside faded away.
Finally, he said, “So what’s your deal?”
I laughed, nearly choking on the syrup. “My deal?”
“You’re the only person in that bar who didn’t look scared. Or disgusted.”
“I’m not easily impressed.”
He leaned forward, voice low. “You’re running from something.”
“Aren’t we all?”
He waited.
I toyed with my fork. “I come to places like the Beaver because nobody there expects me to quote scripture or smile pretty for the congregation.” My voice was smaller than I wanted. “They just let me be.”
He nodded, chewing that over. “Your dad—he really is an asshole.”
“Yep.”
“He finds out we’re together, he’ll kill one of us. Not you.”
I rolled my eyes. “He says that about every guy I’m around.”
Axel grunted. “This time he’s serious.”
I looked at him, at the blue-black bruises blooming on his jaw, the way his eyes never stayed still for long, and I felt a pang so sharp it almost made me sick.
We sat there, watching each other, neither of us willing to blink first.
After a while, I reached into my bag, found a napkin, and dabbed at the blood on his hand. He let me, didn’t say a word, just watched my face like he was memorizing it.
The clock on the wall clicked past one. The waitress was stacking chairs, giving us the hint.
Axel stood, stretched, and fished in his pocket for a crumpled bill. He tossed it on the table, then looked at me.
“You need a ride home?”
I shook my head. “I have a system.”
He waited.
“My dad’s house has a window that never locks. I go in that way. He’s usually passed out by midnight.”
He nodded, then took my phone from the table and tapped in his number.
“In case those college boys come back,” he said, handing it over.
Our fingers brushed, lingered. I didn’t let go right away.
He looked at me, and I saw it, the urge to say something real, something that would ruin everything. Instead, he just pulled away, slow.
Outside, the world was freezing. He started his bike, and the sound was thunder in the dead of night.
“It’s a bad idea,” he said. “But I want you to come with me.”
He was right, but I climbed onto the bike anyway.