Page 4 of Her Grumpy Biker
Everyone is disappointing. It’s naive to think otherwise.
His words still sting, but he was definitely right about the fake animal shelter guy. While I don’t think everyone is like that, I can see his point. There has to be a middle ground between blindly trusting everyone and isolating yourself from the world as a form of protection.
That thought makes me see the grumpy, gorgeous man from yesterday in a new light. He’s not mean, he’s jaded. Without having spoken for more than a handful of minutes, I can sense he’s lonely, too. Not letting anyone get close might shield him from disappointment, but it also means he has no one who sees the man beneath the defenses.
I don’t even know his name, and yet I’m drawn to everything about him. He has tattoos peeking out from the sleeves and collar of his leather jacket, making me wonder if his entire chest, back, and arms are covered in swirling ink. Coupled with his long hair, fierce gaze, and perma-scowl, he’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met. He’s certainly not like the boys I grew up with on the compound.
The two guys he was talking to hop on their motorcycles and peel away, leaving him alone on the side of the street. He rakes his fingers through his hair, the motion hypnotizing me as my feet carry me outside and across the street until I’m standing in front of him.
“Hi,” I blurt out, my eyes finding his. Heat rises in my cheeks, my familiar and embarrassing blush rising to the surface. I can’t hide anything.
My feelings have always been on full display, which is why I got in trouble so much growing up. No one wants a crazy, unstable, emotional wife, and since that’s my one purpose in life, I'd better learn how to control myself. At least, that’s what I’ve been told from a young age.
The man is silent, his blue eyes trained right on me. His jaw is clenched, and his brows furrow the longer he stares at me. Everything about him is intense. I don’t think anyone has given me this much attention except during punishments back home.
“How many tattoos do you have?” I ask, unable to stem the flow of questions any longer. I’m insanely curious about him and his lifestyle. As we’ve already determined, I don’t have much experience with life outside the compound, but I love collecting stories of the people I’ve met since leaving.
The man doesn’t answer, so I continue. Someone has to carry the conversation.
“Do you have a car? Or just the motorcycle?”
No response.
“Have you always lived here in Jackson Ridge? It’s just the cutest little town. Oh! Wow, I didn’t see your scar before.” I clap my hand over my mouth, my cheeks burning with shame. I shouldn’t have said anything. Back home, that kind of comment would earn me a tongue-lashing followed by the back of my father’s hand. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I… I just… I’m sorry. I’m nosey and don’t know when to shut up.”
His face never changes. My eyes wander to the deep red line that stretches across his left temple and disappears into his hairline.
“You shouldn’t talk to strangers,” he grunts.
My lips turn up into a grin. He doesn’t seem to care about my rudeness, probably because he’s a little rough around the edges as well.
“I’m Camden,” I tell him, holding out my hand for him to shake. He doesn’t acknowledge the gesture in the slightest.
“Deadeye,” he replies without taking my hand.
“Deadeye? Is that a nickname? How did you get it?” I know I should stop asking intrusive questions, but I can’t help myself. Deadeye might be the most intriguing person I’ve ever met.
“I was a sniper in the military. Got the name from my Commanding Officer. When I got out and joined the MC, it stuck.”
“MC?”
“Motorcycle Club. Shit,” he curses, breaking eye contact for the first time since I walked up to him. “Why did I tell you that?”
“Because I asked.” I give him a reassuring smile, but he’s not looking at me. “I’m happy you answered. I want to hear whatever you’re willing to share.” Is that a weird thing to say after just introducing yourself to someone? I don’t know. I’m just making up the rules as I go, hoping to figure it out on the way.
“I’m not worth knowing,” he mutters. Deadeye rubs the back of his neck and stares down at his boots.
My heart twinges in pain at his words. The thought from earlier replays in my mind; he must be lonely behind those walls he’s built.
“That’s not true,” I whisper.
Blue eyes latch onto mine, his gaze filled with questions and disbelief, as if it’s a revolutionary thought that someone would want to be his friend. His eyes narrow into slits as doubt and bitterness take over his features.
I want to stay here and ask him a million more questions, but I can tell he’s done talking. Additionally, I have a job to return to. The nice thing about living in a tiny town is that I’m sure I’ll run into Deadeye again soon.
“Well, it was really nice chatting,” I say, giving him another bright smile. “I’ll see you around, Deadeye.”
“Diego,” he blurts out. “You can call me Diego.” He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “Fuck me, why do I keep telling you things?”
