Page 12 of October's Ride with Atlas

“Go sit down and relax. I’ll make dinner,” he says.

I freeze. He doesn’t sound mad, but maybe he’s still angry from my escape attempt.

“If you don’t want meatloaf, I can make something else…” I say, but he shakes his head as he walks over to me.

“Go rest and let me take care of you,” he says gently, while pushing some of my hair away from my face.

When his fingers gently brush my skin, I get tingles racing down my spine.

“Why?” I blurt out the big question on my mind.

He takes a deep breath, like he’s thinking for a minute before he answers.

“Because I get the feeling you are always taking care of other people, but no one takes care of you, and I have this need to take care of you,” he says.

My lips part in shock as I stare up at him.

He catches the moment and gently reaches up and runs a finger over my bottom lip. “Go sit down, or take a nap,” he says, his rough voice soothing.

Though I’m not really tired, I head to the bedroom and lie down just to get some space as my mind races.

It’s been a really long time since anyone has really taken care of me. I was taking care of my mom and myself, and I guess I fell into that role with my dad, and he let me. That flowed into me taking care of the men in the club my dad brought around. It was natural, and I never gave it much thought.

I must have been more tired than I realized because the next thing I know, Atlas is rubbing my arm and calling my name.

“It’s time for dinner, Princess,” he says, his voice low and gentle.

When I open my eyes, he is crouched down beside the bed and eye level with me. He keeps stroking my arm as I awaken. The comfort it brings soothes me. I don’t think he knows what that touch is doing to me, so I move and stretch.

He stands, looking down at me with a warm look in his striking eyes.Maybe if I knew him better, I would know what that look signifies.

“Wash up. It’s time to eat,” he says, leaving the room.

After taking a few minutes to wake up, and more importantly, to let my heart stop racing, I make my way to the kitchen. I find he’s set the dining room table like it’s a fancy meal, candles and all.

“What’s this?” I ask as I take a seat in the chair he holds out for me.

“Just because we are out in the middle of nowhere doesn’t mean we can’t have a nice dinner,” he says, while pushing my chair in. Then he sits down at the table directly across from me.

“I can’t remember the last time someone cooked dinner for me,” I say with awe as I take it all in. Then, realizing what I said, I clamp my mouth shut.

“There isn’t anything you can’t talk about. It seems like you were taking care of other people, but no one was taking care of you,” he says, passing me a plate of mashed potatoes.

How much can I trust him? Is it really betraying Dad if I tell Atlas I did the cooking and cleaning? I don’t think so. It’s not as if I’m giving him trade secrets.

“Yeah, I cooked the meals and kept wherever we were clean. I made the grocery lists, and one of the other guys would do the shopping,” I tell him as I load up my plate with meatloaf and gravy.

Shaking his head, he doesn’t say anything, but takes another bite of food.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I just think they should have been seeing to you,” he says, but it looks as if he’s stopping from saying anything else.

“I’ve been taking care of myself since my dad was in jail. I had to, Mom didn’t care to,” I say like it’s nothing.

At my words, Atlas’s fork clatters to his plate, and he looks over at me.

“You know your dad could have left the Army when you were five. And again, when you were nine. But because he was more interested in his black-market dealings and the money he was making, he kept volunteering for deployments over and over. But I know he was sending a good amount of money home to your mom for you every month too,” Atlas says.

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