We pass a cozy pink and red-themed diner with its lights on and a hand-lettered sign readingMARVIN'S. Turning down a side street, and then another, we pull up behind a building with a steel staircase running up to a second floor.
He cuts the engine. “Up the stairs, princess.”
His voice is so deep that with my ear six inches from his throat, it vibrates somewhere in my core. I don't move and he doesn’t either. The bike ticks under us as it cools. After a second, he twists his head over his shoulder to look at me.
Our faces are so close that I suck my breath in. His slate gray eyes are locked on mine. I’m the one who finally breaks it, because if I don't, I am going to sit on this bike staring at him until the sun comes up.
I climb off the bike, my dress dragging on the ground. He steadies my elbow with the same care a man would use to set down something fragile he might break.
The staircase is steep. He goes up first, while I follow him in my muddy white wedding dress, holding the skirt out of the way, trying not to think about what I’m doing. He unlocks a heavy door at the top and holds it for me, and I walk into his apartment.
It isn't what I expected, although I’m not sure what that was. Clean. A leather couch, worn at the arms. Bookshelves. Military history, mostly, but with a beat-up paperback ofThe Standon the side table and a stack of dog-eared paperbacks. Lightning flashes overhead and rain spatters against the windows.
“Sit. I’ll find you some clothes.” He gestures to the couch and turns on the TV. It comes up to a screen where the last thing he watched is displayed.
“Is thatPsycho?”
“If it freaks you out, pick a different movie.”
“No, I’m a big horror fan. I watch them to relax… I know that sounds weird. I love this movie.”
He stops two steps into the doorway of the kitchen and turns to look at me.
In the hour I’ve known this man, I’ve watched him drop another man with one punch, hide me under a bar, and putme on a motorcycle. Nothing has registered on his face. But his expression is different now; the corner of his mouth is doing something that looks like a lopsided smile.
“1960,” he says. “Or the Van Sant remake?”
“What kind of monster watches the Van Sant one?”
He smiles and disappears. I click play and lose myself in the movie for ten minutes. The wedding dress puddles around my feet like a deflated soufflé. Heavy steps thud back into the room.
“The bathroom's on the left, towels are on the rack. Clean clothes on the chair by the door, princess. Sweats and a t-shirt.”
I do as I’m told. I rip off the rest of the dress once I’m in the bathroom, shreds of mud-soaked material clinging to my skin. The shower is hot and the soap on the shelf has the biker’s cedar scent. I use it on every inch of me, including my face and hair, trying to scrub the look Rico Taylor gave me off my skin.
Toweling myself off, I hold up the clothes on the chair. There’s a pair of grey sweats that are far too long and a clean, folded t-shirt. I pull the t-shirt over my head, and step into the sweats, rolling them up about ten times around my ankles.
The biker is standing at the counter with two plates of eggs and toast. He puts both plates on a small table by the window and pulls a chair out for me without saying a word.
He sits across from me as I gobble down the food. He hasn't taken his eyes off me.
“You're staring,” I say.
“I am.”
“You could stop.”
“I could," he agrees. He doesn't.
I look down at my empty plate because I have to look somewhere.
“You want more?”
I nod, and he refills my plate. Halfway through the eggs, my hands quit shaking, and I start to cry, quietly, putting my forkdown. He doesn't say anything, just puts his big scarred hand over mine on the table.
“You ready to tell me your story?” His rough voice is gentle enough that it makes me start crying again.
He gets up and finds me a tissue. “How about I start? My name’s Striker.”
