Page 35 of Bullet

I’ve never justified myself to anyone before, but tonight I feel the need to make it obvious that I wasn’t asking so I could turninto a walled-off, judgmental bitch again. “Mine are hardly clean either. Look at the job I was doing.”

“If you’re asking because you need to know for yourself, then I stand by that. My handsarebloodstained. I didn’t join the club to pick it back up again. I didn’t have much family left and was looking for somewhere to belong. Somewhere I could just be who I was.”

His words physically hurt. My throat aches, but it’s nothing compared to the cramp in my stomach and my chest.

“Is my past as sad and violent as what some of those guys have known? Hardly. I was raised by a single mom. Grew up poor. She died young of cancer. I got leave for a few months to look after her, and when she was gone, I didn’t have anywhere else to go, but right back to it. I didn’t hate it. It was a family of sorts, and I was always the loner type. Never had any good friends.”

I don’t know why he’s giving me this intimate look into his life. I don’t know what to say, so I stay quiet and just listen.

“I liked books, but was shit at school. I couldn’t focus. I’d probably get diagnosed with something now, but I think they pretty much just slap that shit on everyone if you don’t want to sit still and regurgitate what you’re told without so much as asking a single question or having an independent thought. But anyway…” His sigh breaks over the kitchen like a gust of wind. “I still have ties with some of the guys I served with. They’re good men for the most part, but none live close.”

After he tells me all of that, I’m at a loss. I’m not good at emotions, at sharing, or opening myself up. Willa was right when she said I need friends. Outside of lawyering, I have no idea how to even talk to people.

My throat works and I finally come up with a question. “Were you born in Hart?”

“No. In Portland.”

I don’t know why that surprises me. “How did you find the club?”

“One of my buddies who got out a few years before I did, met a Canadian girl. I was driving up to visit them. Hart was on the way. I stopped in for a bite to eat at Patterson’s. It had a homey feel and I hadn’t eaten before I left. Just got in the truck and decided to go on impulse. There were a few guys there, having lunch. I was staring at them like an idiot, and one of them was Zale Grand, Tyrant’s old man. He was a decent guy at one time.”

That sounds ominous. I don’t know what Zale did to his son, but from the shadow on Bullet’s face, it wasn’t good.

“I guess I had a certain look about me, because he asked if I’d be interested in prospecting for the club. I told him I was just passing through, but when I was back, I’d come see him, and I did.”

I can’t stop the smallest smile from peeking out. Bullet notices and responds in kind, which makes my heart race madly.

“I know, it’s a funny story. Pretty token.”

“No. It’s not that. It’s just… I’m sorry, but I did think there must be a height and weight requirement to be a biker. You’re all so huge.”

Bullet’s eyes dance and his smile grows. He’s so beautiful this way.

My pulse beats wildly at my neck. I did that. I made him smile. I’ve never felt a glow of pride like the one that filters through me now. It’s insane, the smallest accomplishment, but I don’t care.

“We’re not all this big. Just the few that you’ve seen so far, I guess. It’s more the inside stuff that pretty much fundamentally makes us all the same. Just lonely, fucked-up souls searching for some kind of purpose, rest, and family. A place that we can breathe.”

Was I breathing? Why have I felt like these past few days have been days where I could actually draw a lungful of air? I should have been straight up panicked about not having a job, getting blacklisted, having to move and start all over again.

“Sometimes, when life gives us the shit lemons, when we peel them open, we get a surprise and find them to just be regular lemons after all. Good for token lemonade, or squeezing on fish or Greek ribs.”

Laughter bursts out before I can put a damper on it. It’s not the little chuckle I give where appropriate, even when I don’t find things the least bit amusing. There’s nothing token about this. It’s a laugh that comes deep from my belly and leaves the cold spots inside me feeling slightly less frigid.

This man isn’t a thug, and if I would have given him even half a second of consideration, or half a chance, I would have realized that long before now. He’s smart too. I should never have judged him as being a cliché himself. A toxic male caveman who reveled in his hedonism.

I get the cream from the fridge, then force myself to sit down despite the restless energy that makes me feel caged when I’mstill. I carefully pour tea into two mugs, my wrist just about breaking off from the weight of the teapot. I add a splash of the whipping cream in each.

That’s right. Only the good stuff.

“Just wait a minute, unless you want to scald your mouth.”

“Doesn’t sound like my idea of a good time.”

“The worst burn I ever gave myself was on a potato.”

His long lashes flutter in a quick blink. “A potato?” He doesn’t believe me, but at least he’s not laughing riotously.

“It stuck to the top of my mouth. Burned me so bad that it hurt for close to two weeks. Eating was torture.”

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