Becca Vs. Biker

Her intelligence...

Not her taste in decorating…

That last one makes me smile. I guess no woman is perfect, and Becca and her obsession with pink, fluffy shit sure keeps her from being perfect.

But does that really matter? In the long run, would it matter if I had a black blanket or a pink one on my bed, as long as Becca is the one who's in that bed with me?

I slosh some more whiskey into my glass, ignoring the ongoing

jabs from my brothers, letting them fade into the background. What they think doesn’t matter. I’m the head of this MC; they aren’t. They can give me shit if they want, but no one will question my supremacy.

But I don’t drink the newly-poured tumbler of whiskey. I just swirl it around and around, as if staring into its amber depths will reveal some sort of magical information that I didn’t know before.

Like...

When Becca was escaping into the clubhouse, hiding from the world within our walls, she was choosing to escape and be with me. That’s what she wanted – to be with me.

I could come with you…

She’d offered that day. She’d begged me that day. And I was too stubborn and bullheaded and stupid to say yes to her generous offer. Why? Because that’s who I am? What a load of bullshit. Well, Mr. I-Always-Tell-The-Truth, here’s some truth:

I was scared. I was scared of feeling something for her. I was scared to fall in love.

Except, I already had.

I stand up from the bar and wobble around on my legs like a sailor just getting back to dry land, the world swimming in front of my eyes. Goddammit, I’m too drunk to drive myself to the Manhattan clubhouse.

“Come on, Butch, let’s go,” I say, picking him out of the crowd because he owns a truck. He can drive.

Also, I can get coffee on the way from Starbucks or whatever. I needed to be sober for this one.

It’s time to stop feeling sorry for myself.

It’s time to start reaching for what I want.

For who I want.

17

Becca

I smile at Lisa and Rory, doing my best to hide my broken heart. A week, a fucking week, and still no word from Harlan. No “Hey babe, I’m at the new clubhouse and still alive,” and sure as hell no “Hey babe, I love you and I’m sorry I’m a jackass.”

I take a swig from my Long Island Iced Tea, hating the name, loving the drink. How is it that such a great drink has such an awful name? I used to dislike Long Island—or more specifically, my long-ass commute to get there every day—but now I hate it with a passion. It has taken away the one guy I’ve ever fallen in love with.

I know it isn’t sane to blame geography on my heartache, but I don’t seem to be able to help myself.

At least my two closest friends are here with me. Lisa leans over and gives me a one-armed hug, pulling me tight against her side. “Becca, baby, it’s going to be okay. Things are a little rough right now, sure, but they aren’t always going to be like this.” She squeezes me again and I sit back up, a little surprised by how much I just want to be held by Lisa right now.

Well, let’s be honest—I really want to be held by an entirely much more muscular set of arms, but since his aren’t here...

Speaking of muscles, most of the bikers are gone today to some rally for Vietnam veterans, and that means we have the clubhouse pretty much to ourselves. That means that there’s a definite slowdown on the fruity drinks with umbrellas, but I’ll do my best to survive.

“Are you sure it’s safe to belong to an MC?” Rory asks, looking around the virtually empty clubhouse as if someone’s going to pop out from behind a column and start shooting at us. I try not to roll my eyes. It's not as if the Black Fists get into a shootout every day, like we’re in a Wild, Wild West saloon in the 1800s or something. Since I was first “kidnapped,” the only thing I’ve ever seen is that knife that Harlan used to…encourage Tye to step out onto the balcony buck-ass naked.

Which, I will fully admit, I still think is fucking hilarious. I've wanted to ask an old neighbor (or six) how long it took Tye to decide to climb down the fire escape to get down to the ground level, and if the police had been called on him for “public indecency,” but I always tell myself not to be a jackass.

Some days, it’s hard to restrain myself though.