Page 44 of Nightmare

Maybe I really don’t see what it’s like.

I want to, though.

Walking away from Fury, I approach Western even though he made it very clear that I shouldn’t do that. Stopping beside him, I can smell the whiskey right away. It’s strong, and it’s clear that he has had one too many. He doesn’t turn to face me when I approach him, he just shoots another one down.

“Hey,” I say, reaching out and sliding the shot glass from his grips. “Walk with me.”

I can feel the other bikers’ eyes on me, no doubt waiting for an explosion.

I, too, am preparing myself.

“Give me,” he grinds out, “my fuckin’ glass back.”

“Bonnie,” Fury calls, but I put up a hand, stopping him.

Western doesn’t scare me, and I’m not about to take his shit.

“No,” I say, pulling it closer. “You have one of two choices here, Western. You can either walk with me, and we can get the hell away from all these eyes, or you can make a scene, and I promise you, I’m still not going to go away.”

He glares at me, his expression so hard, and yet so broken, it hurts my heart to see. There is a pain in his eyes, a pain that runs so deep, it absolutely shatters my soul. Shoving up from his stool, I’m surprised when he turns and partially stumbles his way outside. Placing the shot glass down, I turn and follow him, not wanting to push my luck by saying anything more right now.

As soon as I step outside, the cool air tickles my face, and I turn my head in the direction of Western’s little shed. He’s walking toward it, fists clenched, angry in a way I have never seen him. He’s hurting, I know it. He’s walking like his soul is about to explode and he can’t hold it in for a second longer. He’s tired, and I’m certain he’s sick of carrying the weight of the world around on his shoulders.

Risking it all, I follow him.

Reaching his shed, I walk through the open door. He didn’t lock it when he came in, and I would like to hope that’s because he doesn’t really mind me coming in after him. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. Glancing around, I see him stride straight into the small kitchen area and pick up a bottle from the counter. He doesn’t take a glass this time, he just opens the bottle, brings it to his lips and drinks the amber liquid.

“Stop,” I say, walking over and reaching for the bottle.

He snatches it away, his eyes pure rage as they land on me. “Do not fuckin’ touch me, Bonnie.”

The way he says my name has shivers running down my spine.

“Then put it down,” I say, carefully, “and I won’t.”

“Why are you here?”

He doesn’t put the bottle down.

“I wanted to see if you were okay,” I tell him, honestly.

Hesitant, I take another small step toward him, and that only has him jerking back, like my very presence is too much for him.

“Western,” I say, carefully.

“Don’t call me that,” he bellows, louder than I’ve ever heard him, and he launches the bottle across the room.

It smashes into a thousand tiny pieces.

Jerking, I take a step backward, my heart racing as I stare in shock and horror at the man whose rage is out of this world. He’s panting, fists clenched, and his face is so tight it’s actually scary. For a second, just a second, I am afraid of him.

“Do you fuckin’ see?” He laughs, but it’s bitter and cold. “You act like you’re not afraid of me, but you are.”

He’s right.

In this moment, I am.

I don’t know what to say, because I can’t tell him I’m fine when clearly, I’m not. My palms are sweating and my hands are trembling just a little. Still, I make a choice in this moment, a choice that will either bite me or it’ll push me one step closer to him. I take a step forward. Then another. I move, even though my knees wobble and my body breaks out into tiny shivers.

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