I can’t help watching Savage. It’s clear he has an important role here at the club. Bikers like Phantom, Shadow, and Viper consult with him all day, visiting him in my room or coming outside to talk in low voices.
I’m used to being a bystander when it comes to club business. Anthony’s motto was alwayswhat I didn’t know couldn’t hurt me, and while I didn’t love it, I’m grateful now that I don’t carry guilt about whatever he was doing that cost him his life.
I try not to think too much about what the Heat does or does not do. The way I met them means they need guns. And that kind of information makes me sick with worry if I think about it too often. Just seeing how hurt Savage is and imagining the kinds of people who did that to him, it’s enough to make me rethink my plan to steal a pair of shoes and run off the first chance I get.
It’s funny, though. I have my own shoes now. The bruises around my eye have healed, and I could easily gather up my shit and walk out the front door.
I sincerely believe that the only reason anyone would stop me would be to ask if I need a ride somewhere. Maybe real power isn’t in the running, but in knowing that I have the freedom to choose what I want. And day after day, I’ve been choosing to stay.
And every night when I tuck Aurora into her crib in Savage’s room and fall into this delicious routine that’s so sweet and comforting, it hardly seems real.
We climb on top of my covers and sit side by side, my head against his shoulder. We eat diner food or food that Stella and the other club girls cook on our laps. Ishow him videos from my mom’s days headlining Neon Dawn, or we talk about my old job and my old life, the work I used to do before all the Anthony bullshit ended my career.
We don’t talk about the hard stuff. How I convinced myself that Anthony’s jabs and insults—both physical and verbal—were things I deserved. How he wedged his way into my life after my mom died so that there was no room for anything but my grief and his demands.
We don’t talk about Savage’s parents or his childhood, but I get the sense from the hints he’s left that both of his parents are still alive. He does tell me a little about his military career, how he was dishonorably discharged and couldn’t finish Ranger school.
His mom called him in a panic one day, thinking she needed to go to the emergency room. His mom never fully explained what happened, but when Savage got word that his mom was in bad shape, he left base and took the first flight home from Ranger school. That alone would have been enough to get him dishonorably discharged. But when he saw his mom doubled over and throwing up blood, he beat his father to within an inch of his life. That was twelve years ago. He got booted from the military, lost everything, and hasn’t spoken to either of his parents since.
He’s alone in life now, except for the Heat. In a weird way, so am I.
The white noise machine coming through themonitor is making me feel drowsy and relaxed. I rest my head against his shoulder, grateful for the comfort it brings me. I think he likes it too, but tonight, he lifts his arm and rests it on my shoulders. The movement brings me closer to him, closer to his injured ribs.
I crave the comfort of his body in ways that I know I shouldn’t. I try to resist, to hold my weight and lean away a little. “I don’t want to hurt you,” I say as I turn to face him.
His beautiful brown eyes spark as he looks down at me. “Nah, but it’d be worth it if you did. You cool with it?”
I shouldn’t be cool with any of this. Shouldn’t be cool cozying up to a man who bought my freedom, a man to whom I owe so much. But he’s wearing a gray T-shirt that looks so soft and smells so inviting.
“I’m cool with it,” I tell him. I snuggle against his side and take a deep breath in. I can’t help myself. He smells so damn good.
We’re quiet until the grainy video of Neon Dawn playing in a bar someplace outside of Buffalo, New York, back in the early nineties ends.
“Do you sing like your momma?” he asks, his voice rumbling through his chest and sending tendrils of pleasure through mine.
“Nuh-uh.” I shake my head. “I don’t know who my daddy was, but I bet I got his pipes. When I sing, it sounds like those videos of Siberian Huskies trying to talk.” I chuckle. “I’m only glad Aurora is too young to care how bad I sound. Once she’s old enough, she’llprobably ask me to stop singing, even the happy birthday song.”
“You hush,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. “I bet you sound beautiful. Every bit of you, Claire. Even the parts you think are less than perfect. You’re beautiful.”
I shake my head. He can’t mean it. “I’m not at all. I?—”
“Hush,” he interrupts. “And take the damn compliment, woman. You’re a goddamn hottie. Any man in his right mind would be lucky to have you. It’s only the shit-for-brains losers—no offense to Aurora’s dad—who would think otherwise.”
I giggle at that. “Anthony was a bit of a shit-for-brains loser.”
Savage grows quiet. His breaths are slow and steady, and the rise and fall of his rib cage is soothing. I rest my cheek against his chest as he asks, “You ever miss him? He ain’t been gone that long. I know it’s got to hurt sometimes.”
I take a deep breath. I don’t even have to think about the answer. I know how I feel. “Missing him isn’t something I think I can ever do,” I say. “I know it sounds wrong, and it feels wrong to say, but he and I… We weren’t together in an intimate way after I got pregnant. He got real weird after that positive pregnancy test. He wasn’t much for talking. Punching and swearing, yeah. But talking… Not toward the end. I feel like he was an enforcer of rules—do this, be quiet, stopdoing that—and not a boyfriend. At least, that’s how the last couple of years went.”
As I talk, Savage gently tightens the arm that’s around my shoulders, pulling me closer. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You loved him once, though?”
He says it like a question, and I wonder if he is asking because he’s thinking about his mom. How any woman could love a man who hurts her.
“I did.” I nod, and my long, loose hair rubs against his shirt. I close my eyes and breathe in his scent, my cheek resting against his muscled chest. “But love means different things at different times. In the beginning, it can be sex, need, or passion, and then it changes.”
“Your mom ever marry anybody?” he asks.
“Oh, hell yeah. My mom was no stranger to a marriage license. She used to joke that everybody needs a starter husband before they’re ready for the forever man.” I laugh. “Turns out, Mom needed three starter husbands and an anonymous baby daddy. She never did find herself a forever man, but she definitely didn’t mind. She used to say, ‘I thought I married smarter each time, but baby, it’s like these men pay for the rings in IQ points.’”