Page 14 of Bloom: Part 1

My desire didn’t come from a place of wanting to top him the way my brothers did their partners. And that made me nervous. I was raised to be a leader. I was an enforcer, for fuck’s sake. How could I be the bitch?

And yet the more I thought of it…

“Hey, can I help you with anything?” The cashier’s voice cut through my thoughts.

“Nah, I’m good.” I walked past the shelves stacked with bags of chips, chocolates, and other snacks. At the back, I browsed through the liquor selection and picked up a bottle of tequila. I didn’t know much about hard liquor. Because of the Zoloft I was on, the doctors forbade me to drink it, but what the fuck? No one would ever know. Crowe said I couldn’t drink until I was twenty-one, but I’d reminded him none of us knew how old I truly was.

I placed the bottle, a pack of cigarettes, and gum on the counter.

“I’ll need to see your ID,” she said.

“No, you don’t.” I handed her my bank card. “I’ve had a rough night. Don’t make it worse.”

I smiled. I didn’t feel it, but my brothers said sometimes a smile worked. She swallowed and nodded. “Okay, but just this once ’cause you’re really cute.”

My cheeks flamed. No one had ever said that to me. People usually stared but kept their distance. Hard to tell what they were thinking that way.

“You think I’m… cute?”

She laughed as she rang up my sales. “Cute is an understatement. You’re fucking hot, and the goth thing you have going on looks fantastic on you.”

My smile was genuine as I took my goods. She scribbled something on the receipt, then gave it to me. “That’s my number on the back. My name’s Naomi. If you want, call me sometime, and we can hook up.”

Yup, that was a phone number all right. I counted all the digits just to be sure. “Thanks, Naomi, but I’m not into girls.”

“Too bad. Still call me. I bet you’re fun to hang out with.”

“Maybe.”

Whoa. I walked out of the store in a daze. Was that how people made friends? For as long as I knew, it was just me and my brothers. I’d never gone to a formal school, so I’d never gotten the chance to make friends, and my life revolved around the club.

My first instinct was to throw away the number. I pocketed it instead. Maybe it would come in handy. The truck was still parked by the pump, even though the driver was no longer getting gas. Uneasiness settled in my gut, and I quickly put away my items in the saddlebag.

A man approached my bike, a cigarette between his lips.

“That your motorcycle, kid?” he asked.

I grabbed my helmet but didn’t put it on.

“I’m talking to you, you weirdo.”

The man fisted my coat. I reared back and slammed my helmet into his face hard. The crunch of bone breaking echoed in the empty night. He staggered back and fell to the ground, clutching his bloody face.

I swung my leg over the bike, put on my helmet, and roared off into the night, leaving behind the gas station, the girl I had no interest in, and the man with the smashed face writhing in pain on the concrete.

I bet he’ll think twice before he comes after anyone again.

Weirdo.

Did he think that insult hurt? I’d heard it all my life. It never bothered me in the past and didn’t bother me now.

Does Dr. Collier think I’m a weirdo?

I swallowed the lump in my throat. He’d told the nurse I wasn’t normal. Was that the reason he refused to be with me? I could stand other people calling me a weirdo, but not Dr. Collier.

I rode too fast and too recklessly, running every stoplight I encountered, my mind racing faster than the motorcycle beneath me. I wanted to outrun my thoughts, hating the self-doubt Dr. Collier had reopened with his constant rejections.

The clubhouse came into view too soon. Several strange motorcycles that didn’t belong there lined the perimeter of the building. I parked and inspected them. Fuck. The bikers from the Grimm Reapers were here. No wonder it was so noisy inside, even though it wasn’t a party night.

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