“So, did you have a ritual or something you were superstitious about wearing when you rode?” I asked.
He nodded, those moss green eyes darkening as the smile slipped from his face, making me regret it. “A Celtic cross on a silver chain, but I lost it, and, well, it proved not to be the talisman I thought it was, because I rode just fine for over a year afterward.”
“Luck runs out, whether you have your lucky cross or boots or hat or rabbit’s foot, which a few guys carried with them. It’s just something we used as a crutch of sorts, because deep down we all knew that there was a train wreck in our future, somewhere down the line. Maybe in months, maybe in years, or maybe the next time we get up on the back of one of those unpredictable animals. It was just the nature of the sport,” Master Thor said.
“I’m glad you guys don’t ride anymore,” I said as I moved from Master Thorin’s boots to Master Wylde’s. “I’d hate to see either of you hurt.”
“No worries there, we’re more than finished,” Master Thorin said as he reached for one of the sandwich triangles.
There was that look again, the one he kept shooting at Master Wylde whenever the subject of riding came up. The firm tone he spoke those words in bordered on Dom voice, and after seeing their dynamic play out my first night here, I’d come to realize that Master Wylde was a switch. Maybe just with Master Thorin, but there were depths to their relationship that left MasterWylde looking away and deliberately avoiding eye contact with him. My brain, even in the mushy, contented state it was in, hoped his words and declaration held sway over Master Wylde, because I’d meant what I said about not wanting to see anything happen to either one of them. Not when I’d already started to think of them as mine. Maybe it wouldn’t be permanent, but I truly hoped that wasn’t the case, because I was coming to care for them as I learned more about them, and I didn’t open my heart to others easily, yet I already wanted to serve it up to them on a silver platter.
“These sandwiches are amazing,” Master Thorin murmured. “I love that you used honey mustard and cucumbers instead of mayonnaise and lettuce.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “Lettuce always tastes like chewy grass water to me.”
“Same,” Master Thorin replied. “I’ve never been a salad guy because of it, though I have had a few that were mostly arugula and spinach that were okay drowned in dressing and shredded meat and cheese.”
“He’s not kidding about the drowned part either,” Master Wylde declared as I began to wipe the dust from his boots. “You can’t see a shred of green beneath the ranch dressing when he’s done pouring it on there.”
“The number of times I have to ask for extra, extra dressing at a restaurant earns my waitresses one hell of a tip when they bring me a bowl of it instead of a tiny container.”
“You might as well ask for ranch soup at that point,” I replied, giggling.
“Ugh, warm ranch dressing is like a steaming pile of horse crap; no one wants to touch that.”
Our laughter rang out over the yard as I cocked my head and started undoing the laces on Master Wylde’s boots.
“So, what’s the story on these?” I asked him. “They look like motorcycle boots.”
“Because they are,” Master Wylde explained. “They also happen to be my favorite pair, so I wear them even when I’m not taking the bike out for a cruise.”
“Wait, so you really are a biker too?”
“I wouldn’t call myself a biker,” he replied. “But I do have a Harley in the trailer behind our house. That old girl and I have logged a lot of miles together.”
“Do you ride too?” I asked Master Thorin.
“Not a chance,” Master Thorin replied. “That’s all him. My oldest brother is a trauma surgeon. He’s called them donor cycles since I was a teenager. After hearing all the stories he’s told about people coming in smashed up or brain dead after being involved in a crash, I’ve never been tempted to get on the back of one, even as a passenger.”
“I love them,” I replied. “My father had one. I have a scrapbook filled with pictures of him on it and me sitting on the back with a too-big helmet on, giggling, because I couldn’t even see because the visor was so big. I hated when he had to sell it when our old car died, but we needed a family vehicle, and well, I’ve come to love the Kia as much as I did that bike, but I do miss riding on the back of one.”
“What happened to him?” Master Wylde asked. “Whenever you speak of him, it’s in the past tense, so I’m guessing he passed away.”
“He did, four years ago,” I explained. “He was hit by a car on his way to his favorite tea house. The guy's brakes had gone out, and there was this lady. He pushed her out of the way and saved her, but he wasn’t able to avoid it, and he died. I miss him every day, but I’m proud of him too, because he thought more about a complete stranger than he did himself, and that’s something not a lot of people would do. He was the most selfless man I’ve everknown. When my mom bailed on us, he could have passed me off to a relative and focused on the career he was trying to build. He even turned down offers from major studios because that would have meant fewer hours with me. Instead, he worked for a place that allowed us to have supper together each night and bedtime stories and rainy weekends drawing. So, while I’ll always hate that he isn’t here for me to call and chat with whenever anything cool happens or I need to vent, I’m glad he did what he did, because he saved a mom with little kids who get to have that with her instead of vague memories.”
I swiped at the tears that had gathered in the corners of my eyes and was instantly hauled up and into Master Wylde’s lap, his strong arms wrapping around me as I cuddled against his chest.
“It took me awhile to find my footing afterward, and when I did, I got my first job as a personal assistant, which eventually led me to Sterling, and then here. I’ve got a knack for organizing, but more than that, I get genuine joy out of taking care of others and seeing to all their needs. A part of me hated that Sterling and I weren’t the perfect fit for one another in every regard. I learned so much about myself while I was with him that it motivated me to come here with the hopes that someday, I’d find someone who was not only looking for everything I had to offer but who’d love me despite how spun out and lost I get when I’m in the middle of creating, because that’s not the kind of chaos everyone can handle.”
“What do you need when you get spun out like that and can’t stop yourself from getting lost in your work?” Master Thorin asked.
Sighing, I nuzzled against the soft t-shirt peeking from between the folds of Master Wylde’s leather jacket.
“A firm hand and an even firmer reminder that the rest of the world exists and that I have tasks and responsibilities thatoccur outside of the pages of my sketchbooks. Sometimes I need to cry and vent and freak out so I can talk about what got me to that state in the first place, and sometimes I just need something more, a distraction that isn’t about finding inspiration or overcoming writer's block,” I explained. “And sometimes I just need to be pinned to the bed and fucked stupid, because I always get the best sleep after that and wake up refreshed and with a lot more clarity.”
“We can certainly handle that,” Master Wylde said.
“Good, because I really like you both, and I don’t think two weeks with you is going to be enough, so I really hope you’ll still want to spend time with me when I’m a service sub here, because I think I’m going to need that, and you both, if you aren’t bored with me by then.”