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“Feed me?” I asked, even as my stomach churned hard in objection to its emptiness.
“Can’t fucking think straight with you looking like skin hanging over bones,” Cary admitted. “And maybe I can scrounge up some fresh clothes for you. The princesses leave their shit around all the time. Brooks, one of the guys here, makes the prospects clean them. So they’re around. Maybe you can use my room to take a shower and change while I make you something to eat. Then you can get a couple of winks without worrying about anything because you’re safe here. Then we can talk about it. Sound good?”
“It sounds too good to be true,” I admitted, letting out a laugh that didn’t have a hint of humor in it.
“It’s basic fucking civility,” Cary corrected. “Come on,” he invited, moving toward the doorway, leading me out into the main area of the clubhouse, then down a hallway that ran along the side of it. We went almost to the end before he pushed a door open, and welcomed me into his room.
He had a space big enough for what looked like a queen-sized bed and a private bathroom to the side. The bedroom kind of fit Cary, if it wasn’t too presumptuous to think I knew a thing about him after so long.
But the deep green of the walls and the rustic wood of the bed, nightstand, and dresser all had a sort of manly elegance about them. Which seemed to fit the man I spent so many letters getting to know once upon a time when I got a wild hair to join a prison pen-pal exchange with my women’s group.
We were supposed to get to know the men and women, then eventually start to try to introduce them to our ways with the hopes of a full conversion.
I’d been assigned to Cary. And I really hadn’t expected anything but to talk about his hardships and what led him to a life of crime, then show him how faith could help him back onto the right path.
I hadn’t expected someone with so much depth and experience, with so many stories to tell, and even advice to give when I eventually went off script and started to open up about my own life as well.
“This is really nice,” I told him, looking around the space that was masculine, yet still warm.
“Thanks, love,” he said, waving toward the bathroom. “Feel free to use anything in there you need. Let me just grab some clothes.”
And then five minutes later, he did just that.
In private, I went ahead and had a good giggle over the shirt he’d given me without checking out what image was plastered over the breast pocket. Which was a collection of really cute cartoon condoms and condom wrappers.
I didn’t exactly know what a “princess” meant when it came to biker clubs, but I thought that the owner of that shirt must have been very secure in herself and her sexuality. I couldn’t help but be just a tad bit jealous as I double-checked that I locked the door, then climbed into the shower.
I spent way too long under the blistering hot water. First, scrubbing at my body and hair with a vengeance, disgusted in how long it had been since I’d gotten a proper wash. But then after that was done, just standing there trying to think of how to ask Cary for the kind of help I was going to need. And what the hell I was going to do if he refused.
No.
He wasn’t going to do that.
I mean it was possible that he couldn’t help me, but he would at least send me in the direction of someone who could.
He was a good man.
That was why I’d decided to seek him out.
“Abigail, love, are you okay in there?” Cary asked, shocking me out of my swirling thoughts as I stared into the mirror without actually seeing myself. “The water cut off ten minutes ago, just wanted to make sure you didn’t pass out in there or something,” he added.
“Sorry. No. I’m okay,” I said, making my way toward the door and pulling it open.
I won’t lie, when his eyes did a slow once-over, my belly totally flip-flopped.
“Should have checked out the shirt, huh?” he asked, smirking as he raked a hand over his beard. “That one must have been Billie’s. She teaches tantric sex workshops and shit like that. I can lend you a different shirt,” he offered.
“It’s fine,” I assured him, shrugging.
“You’re sure?” he pressed, clearly thinking of my past, of the girl I’d once been.
“A lot has changed since then. This doesn’t bother me anymore,” I told him.
“Not sure if I should be happy for you, or deeply concerned,” Cary admitted as he led me back into the kitchen where the rich scents of cooking hit my nose and made my belly let out yet another grumble.
