Page 79 of Sinful
"That's something."
"Yeah. It is." I take a long drink. The beer is cold and perfect and exactly what I need. "Thank you. For following me. For saving my ass. For—everything."
"Don't thank me. Just did what needed doing."
"Bullshit." I look at him. "You could've let me die. Should've, probably. Would've been easier for everyone."
"Yeah. I could've." He meets my eyes, and somethingin them isn't dead anymore. Just tired. Human. "Couldn't stomach it though."
"Why?"
The question hangs between us.
He takes a drink instead of answering, but his jaw tightens, and I see him wrestling with something.
"Because," he says finally, "for the first time in eighteen years, I felt something when I looked at you. And I couldn't just let that die."
My breath catches.
"Eighteen years is a long time to feel nothing," I say quietly.
"Yeah. It is." He turns on his stool slightly, facing me more directly. "Lost my family in a fire when I was fifteen. Parents and two little sisters. Burned alive while I stood outside and couldn't save them."
"Bravos—"
"Been dead inside ever since. Easier that way. Safer. Can't lose what you don't have." He's not looking at me anymore, staring at his beer like it's a confessional. "Then you walked into Bubba's wearing racing leathers with dead eyes that matched mine, and something—" He stops. Starts again. "Something woke up."
I don't know what to say to that.
Don't know how to tell him I felt it too—that spark, of finding someone who understands what it's like to carry death around inside you.
"I'm leaving," I hear myself say instead. "As soon as Dad's stable enough. I'm going back to Texas. Or somewhere else. Anywhere but here."
"Why?"
"Because I don't belong here. Can't breathe here. Everyone looks at me and sees the girl who betrayed them."
"Or," Bravos says, "they see the girl who rode into hell alone to save her father. Who fought eight cartel soldiers and walked out alive. Who's got more guts than half the men in that clubhouse."
"You're giving me too much credit."
"I don't think I'm giving you enough." He shifts closer—just slightly, but enough that I can feel the heat from his body. "You're not a fuckup, Helle. You're a survivor. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yeah. There is." His hand moves—hovers near mine on the bar, not quite touching but close enough to feel the intention. "And for what it's worth, I'm leaving too. Few more days, maybe a week. Then I'm back to Texas. Back to being a Nomad who doesn't stay anywhere."
"Sounds lonely."
"It is." He finally looks at me again. "Been lonely for eighteen years. Guess I got used to it."
"Maybe you don't have to be."
The words are out before I can stop them.
His eyes sharpen. "You asking me something?"
"No. Maybe. I don't know." I finish my beer in one long swallow. "I don't know how to ask for things. Don't know how to want things without them burning down around me."
