Page 66 of Biker's Prisoner: Property of Bucky

We aren’t entirely alone tonight, something I keep out of Zayna’s awareness. Club business brought me in touch with one of the Murray brothers who attended McGraw. Odhran Murray lets me park my bike at his warehouse, a half mile away from the sports bar. We leave our helmets behind and walk down the streets as if we’re just regular Boston people.

Zayna looks so damn tiny when she walks next to me that I almost want to put her up on my shoulders. I doubt she would like that very much.

“How do we know when he’s going to leave the bar?” She asks. Fair question. My plan was to be patient and wait. Would be easier if we scored but… Considering how Zayna responded to my suggestion with the baby, I don’t want to bring up meth. The back of my teeth grind together with a hint of anxiety at the biggest unknown in the equation.

“He’ll leave after the game most likely.”

“Have you ever met a Bruins fan?” Zayna asks. “They’re crazy. If they win the game, they’ll riot.”

“Guess we better bet on them losing…” I mutter, throwing my arm over her shoulder, hoping the warmth and closeness will calm Zayna a little.

“Okay. You definitely haven’t met a Bruins fan.”

“What?” I reply.

“They riot when they lose too.”

“These men should enlist,like I did. They wouldn’t care so much about games if they did…”

Zayna laughs and then leans against my chest. “Yeah. The only sport I ever liked was football until…”

She trails off. I pull her closer. That pain will be gone soon. At least the pain of knowing that they got away with it. I can’t take all her pain away, no matter how badly I want to do just that.

“What football team did you watch?” I ask, like this is a walk back home after a first date and not a potentially dangerous hunt for a college football player.

“Patriots.”

“You’re terrible.”

“I know.”

“I can’t believe you ended up out West.”

“Neither can I,” she says. Still so close. Still tempting me to give up every dangerous fucked up thing in my life just to be hers.

“Where do you want to end up, Zayna?”

Her name sounds pretty. It also sounds special. Like there’s no other Zayna in my world and the only one that exists belongs to me. She’s not an Emily or a Sarah, replicated by the dozens out in Missouri.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I barely thought I would survive Vegas.”

“But you did.”

“Yes,” she says, glancing around for landmarks. I’m keeping track of exactly where we are, so I don’t need her to look. I pull her close to me, trying to keep Zayna here in this moment and not in the past or the future.

“So what can you imagine now? I’ll take you anywhere.”

“Anywhere?”

“Yes.”

“Even Florida?”

I laugh. “Weird way of saying it. Yes. Even Florida.”

“What about South Dakota?”

“You don’t want to go there.”

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