Chapter 5 — Isla #3
For a while we just lie there. His face buried in my neck, my hands in his hair, both of us trying to catch our breath. I feel him soften inside me but neither of us moves to separate yet.
Eventually he lifts his head and looks at me. Searches my face for something.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Yeah. I'm okay."
He pulls out and shifts to lie beside me. I immediately miss the weight of him. He pulls the sheet up over both of us and we lie facing each other in the dim light from the bedside lamp.
"You really not scared?" he asks quietly.
"I'm terrified. But not of you. Of what your world means. Of whether I'm strong enough for it."
"You're stronger than you think."
"How do you know?"
"Because you went outside tonight when I told you to stay inside. Because you watched me beat a man unconscious and your first question wasn't 'how could you' but 'is he dead.' Because you're lying here now instead of running." He touches my face with bandaged fingers. "That's strength, darlin'."
I close my eyes and feel his thumb trace my cheekbone. The gauze is rough but his touch is gentle. "I leave Sunday."
"I know."
"That's two days from now."
"I know."
"Is this crazy? Wanting more time with you when we barely know each other and my whole life is built around leaving?"
He's quiet for a moment. "Probably. But I haven't wanted anything like this in years. So if it's crazy, at least we're both crazy."
I open my eyes and look at him. Really look at him.
The weathered face, the gray in his beard, the lines around his eyes.
Forty-eight years old and still doing violence in parking lots because that's what the code requires.
Still protecting Bloomfield and everyone in it.
Still living in this empty temporary house because he's never stayed anywhere long enough to make it home.
"What happens Sunday?" I ask.
"I don't know. You drive to Millbrook. I stay here. We figure it out from there."
"That's not much of a plan."
"No. It's not." He pulls me closer until my head is tucked under his chin and my body is pressed against his. "But it's two more days. We'll figure out Sunday when Sunday comes."
I wrap my arm around his waist and feel his heart beating steady against my palm.
Outside the cicadas keep screaming. Inside this sparse temporary house I'm lying with a man I've known two days who just beat someone unconscious in front of me, and instead of being afraid I feel safer than I have in months.
That should probably worry me.
Instead I press my face against his chest and breathe him in. Leather and sweat and something underneath that's just him.
"Stay tonight," he says quietly.
"Okay."
"And tomorrow. Come to church with me. Meet everyone properly. See what this world looks like from the inside."
I lift my head to look at him. "You sure about that?"
"No. But I'm asking anyway."
"What does it mean if I come to church? To them?"
"Means you're not just someone I'm spending time with. Means you matter. Means if anything happens to you, the club will treat it like family."
"That's a lot of weight for three days."
"Yeah. It is." He watches me steady. "But I want you to come anyway."
I think about Katherine earlier, how she lit up when she saw me. How Tate looked at Chuck with something like approval. How Walt called Clint this morning because he was excited that Chuck had finally shown interest in someone.
I think about Sunday and Millbrook and the next four weeks in a town I've never been to, building relationships I'll leave behind, doing work that matters but never staying long enough for it to feel like home.
I think about how my whole life for three years has been built around protection through motion, and how lying here in Chuck's arms feels like the opposite of that.
"Okay," I say. "I'll come."
Something in his expression softens. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I settle back against his chest. "But I'm not making any promises past Sunday."
"I'm not asking you to." His hand runs down my back, slow and steady. "Just asking for two more days."
"Two more days," I agree.
We lie there quiet for a while. His breathing evens out but I don't think he's asleep yet. My mind is still racing, replaying the violence, the blood, the way he moved, the way he looked at me after like he was waiting for me to leave.
"Chuck?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for being honest. About what you are, what you do. I know that probably wasn't easy."
"Easier than lying and having you find out later.
" He's quiet for a moment. "Most women see what I am and leave.
The ones who stay usually do it because they're attracted to the danger or they think they can change me.
You're the first one who seems to actually understand that this is just who I am. Not damaged, not fixable. Just this."
"I don't want to change you."
"I know. That's why I'm asking you to stay two more days."
I close my eyes and let myself just be here. In this moment. With this man. Making choices that don't make sense but feel right anyway.
Eventually sleep comes, and when it does I dream about staying longer than Sunday.