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This.
This is what I fought for as I tried to come to terms with the pain rushing through my body after being shot. It was such a strange experience—to notice all the little things in a rush while time seemed to slow and then stand still.
I know I’m missing part of those memories, which I’m grateful for, but the wild look of turmoil on Crosby’s face when he saw me bleeding out on the ground is clear as day. It’s a memory that sometimes wakes me up in the middle of the night.
Not the pain of the bullet spearing into my abdomen. Not the screaming and tears from my best friend.
No. It’s his face that wakes me up in a cold sweat. Still, even months later, it haunts me.
I allow the reason why to take purchase inside of my soul. I take it out and examine it for what it is while we fly down the streets of New Orleans which is being touched by the rebirth of spring. I take solace in the way time has kept going and the world has continued to turn.
Because there was a moment in my life when I honestly did not think I would get to experience it. I remember the feeling of regret and sorrow because I had spent so much time denying what was right in front of me.
Then when I woke up in that hospital room, I kept going down that path instead of changing my stars.
It’s not too late.
No. No, it’s not too late.
Crosby’s large hand finds my knee, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking, and gives it a squeeze. I’ve never told him, but the truth is that I live for the connection between us.
It was regretting the distance between us that kept me fighting for my life. Because I wanted to make it right. But then fear crept in again and I remembered why I had not allowed myself to give into him.
It’s not too late.
I snuggle deeper into his back, and I feel him take a deep breath as his relief washes over me. It was only moments ago he told me this is where I belong. He’s shown me the same thing time and time again with his actions—that being with him is where I’m meant to be.
But I’ve denied it in the hopes of protecting myself. In reality, was I only hurting myself? And him?
His deep timbre echoes in my mind as he offers me so much more than a seat on the back of his back, “It’s where you belong.”
Maybe he’s right.
CHAPTER 7
SIOUX
The silence between us as we ride to the DSMC clubhouse is calm and serene. But as he slows, I know this moment is ending. Fear grips me again, but I try to shake it away.
I’ve been doing myself no good by denying what I truly want.
Could Crosby hurt me in the end? Is it possible that we won’t always have the sunset at our back and the wind skating across us as we hold each other close? Sure, but is there reward without risk?
The prospect at the gate of the clubhouse lets us in without Crosby needing to stop completely. They exchange a chin lift as we make our way into the parking lot, and he pulls his bike into a spot. Even when he shuts his bike down, neither of us makes a move to get off.
Not right away.
It seems we both want to freeze and live in this moment. It’s peace, something that feels like I haven’t known since I felt the searing pain of Anarchy’s bullet.
When Crosby covers my hands with his and gives a reassuring squeeze, I know that we can’t ignore the way life is always moving forward. It’s not like we can really ignore the party going on in the DSMC clubhouse anyway.
The music is pumping out of the converted warehouse, and I can hear laughter coming from some of Crosby’s brothers. When I shift my head slightly against his back, I don’t see anyone standing in front of the large doors with a devil’s skull burned into them which means they have to be out back.
The weather is perfect to have the fire pits going and if I know Wrenley then she’s out there with some marshmallows. Even the draw of seeing my best friend isn’t enough to make me want to move right now. It’s a strange realization after how much work I’ve put in to denying Crosby’s claim on me.
“I know, firefly,” his voice is a soothing balm on the frayed edges the emotions rioting inside of me. “We’ll ride again and the only woman who belongs on the back of my bike is you. Always you,” he whispers the last part so low that I almost don’t catch them.
But I do.
