Chapter 2 Shelter from the Rain
Breathe
The motorcycle finally slowed as we turned off the highway and onto a quieter road.
Rain still poured from the sky, though it seemed less violent than before. Maybe that was wishful thinking. Maybe I was simply too exhausted to care anymore.
My arms tightened instinctively around Jaxon's waist when the motorcycle leaned into a turn.
The movement felt natural now.
Strange.
An hour ago, I hadn't known he existed.
Now I was holding on to him while he drove me through a thunderstorm.
Life was weird.
A large building appeared through the darkness ahead.
Light spilled from several windows facing the road.
The sign mounted above the garage doors became visible as we approached.
KANE CUSTOMS.
The words were painted across black metal.
Motorcycles sat beneath an overhang outside the building, protected from the rain.
The garage looked old but well maintained.
Solid.
Reliable.
Like the man driving the motorcycle.
The thought slipped into my mind before I could stop it.
Jaxon pulled beneath the overhang and switched off the engine.
Silence settled around us.
Not complete silence.
Rain still drummed against the roof overhead.
Thunder still echoed in the distance.
But compared to the ride, everything felt strangely calm.
For a moment neither of us moved.
Then Jaxon climbed off the bike.
I followed awkwardly.
My legs immediately protested.
Apparently spending nearly an hour clinging to a motorcycle in a storm used muscles I didn't normally use.
Good to know.
Jaxon removed his helmet and ran a hand through damp dark hair.
"Come on."
I nodded.
The warmth inside the garage hit me the second he unlocked the side entrance.
The difference was immediate.
After the freezing rain outside, the heated building felt wonderful.
I stepped inside and stopped.
Rows of motorcycles filled the space.
Some looked finished.
Others sat partially dismantled on lifts.
Tools lined the walls.
Metal shelves held spare parts, helmets, and boxes of equipment.
The entire garage smelled faintly of oil, metal, and engine grease.
It should have felt intimidating.
Instead, it felt strangely comforting.
Everything looked organized.
Purposeful.
Every tool had a place.
Every machine had a story.
For a writer, it was impossible not to imagine them.
The people who owned them.
The roads they'd traveled.
The lives they'd touched.
Jaxon locked the door behind us.
"You can leave your bag there."
I set my backpack near a workbench.
Only then did I realize how soaked I was.
Water dripped from my clothes onto the floor.
My sweater clung uncomfortably to my skin.
My shoes squished with every step.
Jaxon glanced at me.
"You look freezing."
"I am freezing."
His mouth twitched slightly.
Not quite a smile.
Close.
"Apartment's upstairs."
I followed him toward a staircase at the back of the garage.
The second floor surprised me.
I wasn't sure what I'd expected.
Something rougher, maybe.
Messier.
Instead, the apartment felt surprisingly normal.
A modest living room connected to an open kitchen.
Dark furniture.
Bookshelves.
A television.
Several framed photographs on the wall.
The space looked lived in.
Comfortable.
Human.
Not at all like the hideout of a terrifying biker criminal.
I wasn't sure why that realization disappointed me slightly.
"Bathroom's down the hall," Jaxon said.
I nodded.
"Thanks."
He disappeared into another room.
For the first time all evening, I found myself completely alone.
The silence settled heavily around me.
Too heavily.
I stood motionless in the middle of the apartment.
Rain tapped against the windows.
Thunder rolled somewhere beyond the walls.
Everything should have felt fine now.
I was safe.
Warm.
Sheltered.
The crisis was over.
So why couldn't I breathe?
A strange tightness appeared in my chest.
Small at first.
Then growing.
I swallowed.
The room suddenly felt too quiet.
Too small.
My pulse quickened.
Not now.
Please not now.
I pressed a hand against my chest.
Tried taking a slow breath.
The air didn't seem to reach my lungs.
Another breath.
Still not enough.
The familiar fear immediately arrived.
I knew this feeling.
I hated this feeling.
Panic attack.
The realization only made things worse.
My heartbeat accelerated.
The walls seemed farther away somehow.
The room tilted slightly.
No.
No.
No.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Tried focusing.
Count backwards.
Control your breathing.
Ground yourself.
The techniques my therapist taught me flashed through my mind.
Usually they helped.
Tonight they weren't working.
Everything had happened too fast.
The storm.
The car.
The isolation.
The dead phone.
The stranger.
The motorcycle ride.
My body had apparently decided now was the perfect time to process all of it.
Wonderful.
My hands began shaking.
Embarrassment mixed with panic.
Not here.
Not in front of him.
The last thing I wanted was to have a breakdown in a stranger's apartment.
Especially a stranger who already looked intimidating enough to scare most people.
I took another breath.
Nothing.
My chest felt tighter.
My vision blurred around the edges.
Footsteps approached.
Great.
Just great.
I lowered my head and tried pretending everything was fine.
An impossible task considering I probably looked like I was about to pass out.
"Elliot?"
Jaxon's voice cut through the panic.
I looked up.
He'd changed into a black T-shirt and dark sweatpants.
His tattoos disappeared beneath the short sleeves before continuing down his forearms.
Concern replaced his usual guarded expression.
I hated that he could see something was wrong.
"You okay?"
I laughed weakly.
The sound came out broken.
"No."
One word.
That was all I managed.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Not judgmental.
Observant.
Like he was trying to figure out a problem.
The realization surprised me.
Most people reacted poorly to panic attacks.
Awkwardness.
Confusion.
Annoyance.
Jaxon simply looked concerned.
My breathing worsened.
I wrapped my arms around myself.
The room blurred again.
"Hey."
His voice remained calm.
Steady.
"Look at me."
I tried.
Failed.
Tried again.
This time I managed it.
Jaxon moved a little closer.
Not enough to invade my space.
Just enough to be heard.
"You're having a panic attack?"
I nodded.
The admission felt humiliating.
His expression softened.
"Okay."
Okay?
That was it?
No judgment?
No questions?
Just okay?
Something about that simple response eased a tiny fraction of the fear.
"Can you sit down?"
I nodded again.
Jaxon guided me toward the couch.
I lowered myself onto it with shaky legs.
My heart still raced.
My chest still hurt.
Everything still felt overwhelming.
But at least I wasn't standing anymore.
Jaxon crouched in front of me.
The position surprised me.
He looked enormous even sitting down.
Yet somehow less intimidating.
More approachable.
"Focus on me."
I tried.
"You're safe."
His voice remained steady.
Certain.
Outside, thunder rumbled again.
Normally the sound would've made me jump.
This time I barely noticed.
"Nothing's happening right now."
I swallowed hard.
My breathing remained uneven.
"Take a breath."
I tried.
Failed.
His expression didn't change.
"No rush."
Another attempt.
Slightly better.
"Good."
The word settled somewhere inside me.
Encouraging.
Not patronizing.
Just patient.
For several minutes, Jaxon stayed there.
Talking quietly.
Guiding me through each breath.
Never acting annoyed.
Never making me feel ridiculous.
Gradually the panic began loosening its grip.
The tightness in my chest eased.
My heartbeat slowed.
The room stopped spinning.
The world felt solid again.
Exhaustion immediately replaced the adrenaline.
I dropped my gaze.
Embarrassment flooded in.
"Sorry."
Jaxon frowned.
"For what?"
I stared at my hands.
"This."
He was silent for a moment.
Then he leaned back slightly.
"No need."
I looked up.
His expression remained calm.
Steady.
Unexpectedly kind.
Not the expression I would've expected from a heavily tattooed biker who looked capable of breaking bones with his bare hands.
Yet here he was.
Patiently helping a complete stranger through a panic attack.
The contradiction made something shift inside me.
For the first time since meeting him, I stopped seeing the tattoos.
Stopped seeing the leather jacket.
Stopped seeing the intimidating exterior.
Instead, I saw the man underneath.
And somehow, that version of Jaxon Kane felt far more dangerous.
Questions and Ink
I wasn't entirely sure what to do with Elliot after the panic attack ended.
That probably sounded ridiculous considering I was thirty-eight years old, owned a business, and had spent most of my adult life handling situations far more complicated than a nervous college student sitting on my couch.
But somehow Elliot made me feel strangely uncertain.
Maybe it was because he looked so exhausted.
Maybe it was because he'd thanked me three separate times for doing the bare minimum.
Or maybe it was because every protective instinct I possessed seemed determined to activate whenever he looked overwhelmed.
Whatever the reason, it was annoying.
I preferred simple problems.
Motorcycles were simple.
Engines were simple.
People rarely were.
Especially not this one.
Elliot sat quietly while I moved around the kitchen.
The apartment wasn't fancy, but it had everything I needed. A stove. A refrigerator. A coffee machine. The essentials.
I opened the fridge.
Not much inside.
A few leftovers.
Eggs.
Bread.
Cheese.
Enough.
"What do you normally eat?" I asked.
Silence followed.
I glanced over my shoulder.
Elliot looked surprised by the question.
"Food?"
I stared at him.
He stared back.
Then his cheeks turned pink.
Right.
The kid was nervous.
I almost forgot.
"Very helpful."
A small smile appeared.
"Sorry."
The smile transformed his entire face.
Before tonight, I'd assumed he was younger than twenty-one.