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“Rainer,” she said, struggling to sound more grown-up than she felt. “I’m grateful for you helping me. But I think I need some alone time now. Try to sort my head out.”
“No problem.” Was that a look of disappointment on Rainer’s face? “And don’t worry about last night. In truth, I was looking for an excuse to get away from there. Getting tired of people asking me whether I was gonna be the Prez.”
“So, are you?”
He gave her a tired look. “Esme, you’re into like, what is it, astrology?”
“Tarot. It’s very different.”
“Sure. But it’s fate and shit?”
Esmeralda didn’t feel up to the challenge of explaining why tarot was — in her opinion — very different from astrology and other divination practices.
“Kind of, I suppose.”
“Last night, people kept saying that it was my destiny — my fate — to be Prez of the club.”
“You don’t think it is?”
“I don’t believe in destiny. I don’t believe in fate.”
She pulled herself up, rubbed her sore head. “What do you believe in?”
He drew himself up to his fearsome full height. “I believe in me.”
It was the first time Rainer had driven across the city topless. Well, to be fair, he hadn’t been completely topless. He’d slipped his sleeveless club cut on, but his bare skin was still visible beneath it — his arms, his defined abs.
He attracted his fair share of wolf-whistles as his bike growled its way through the city. The whistles were mostly from women who caught sight of his muscular physique and extensive tattoos, but a couple of guys risked a whistle, too. Rainer, however, barely noticed.
His mind was racing, but he wasn’t thinking about the presidency, or the club. No. All he could think about was Esme.
Last night, when she’d collapsed into him, sending his beers flying across the room, he hadn’t felt angry, not even for a nanosecond. Her tight, soft body against his — the heat of her, the way she had instinctively held onto him. Seeing Esmeralda so vulnerable, so clearly distraught, had switched him straight into Daddy mode.
A mode that he didn’t engage very often.
Instead of worrying about the fate of the club, and about the future of his brothers, he was thinking about why Esme had got into that state, what it was that had prompted her to drink so much, so quickly.
She was probably just after a good time. Probably forgot her limits — something that Littles do from time to time.
But he found that hard to believe. There was something so nihilistic about the way she’d been talking, about the way she’d seemed, that he couldn’t help but suspect there was something more to her drunkenness than met the eye.
Then, when he’d arrived at her place, when he’d seen what a mess it was, his heart had felt even more pain for her. This morning, she’d clearly not wanted him at her place. Rainer had been hoping that when she woke, he could ask her about her life, about whether she needed any help. Of course, that hadn’t happened. It wasn’t easy to broach something like that.
But he didn’t need to ask, anyway. Heknewthat she needed help.
“So, what, you think you should be the one to help her? You think you can be her knight in shining white armor? You’re such a prick,” he muttered to himself as he pulled up onto the curb by his shop.
It was a strange feeling — this desire to defend. An unfamiliar one. Rainer had been interested in plenty of girls before, but he’d never felt this intense, protective feeling. Maybe it was something to do with being nominated to be Prez of the club. Maybe it was his latent leadership instinct coming out.
He doubted it.
He probably just had a dumb crush on Esme. He’d go for a run later, tire himself out. That normally helped.
Rainer’s shop was in a run-down industrial unit in Mott Haven, near the South Bronx. It was one of the less picturesque parts of the city. Around here there were mostly warehouses and factories. The air was thick with the smell of hot plastic and oil. Still, he didn’t care about picturesque – he just wanted a space to call his own. He’d only recently moved here from his old place in Albany, and he was pleased to be back in the city, even if he couldn’t afford anywhere a little more central.
After much consideration, he’d decided on the name: Rainer’s Rides. He’d got a neon sign commissioned from an old friend of his who’d studied art at the School of Visual Arts. It was a slick, bright purple squiggle of light that was visible from half a block away.
Rainer unlocked the garage door and lifted it open. He was instantly hit with the smell of gas and grease, of leather and rust.
