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I shrug. “As all right as I can be right now.”
He nods as if he understands. Maybe he does. He is so compassionate about my feelings that I can’t help but feel grateful. I don’t know what I ever did that merited this sort of man coming into my life when I needed him most, but I’m grateful to whatever forces put him in my path. I sometimes feel like I don’t deserve it, but I’m going to take it and run with it.
“To be honest, that crying… it was cathartic in a way,” I tell him. “About as cathartic as smashing up the Howlers’ clubhouse. Different emotions but the same kind of release.”
“I imagine you’re going to need those kinds of releases for a while.”
“Maybe. I mean, as much as I held onto hope that I’d get out of that place, I’m realizing there’s a part of me that never thought it would happen. A part of me that was resigned to being there forever. Or at least until he killed me,” I say bluntly. “And now that I’m free—thanks to you—I’m just really overwhelmed. It’s like I don’t know what to do with all these emotions now. They’re coming at me from every direction, and I can’t get out of their way fast enough. So, smashing things and sobbing will apparently be my coping mechanisms.”
“Trust me, that’s a lot healthier than some of the alternatives,” he offers. “I just want you to know that you can always talk to me, Molly. When things are getting to be too much and you’re feeling overwhelmed, you’re scared, or you’re just pissed off, I’m here to listen.”
I give him a smile and open my mouth to ask him a question that’s been nagging at me for a while now when the waiter walks up. He takes our order and politely leaves the table, as if sensing we’re in the middle of an important discussion.
“So, tell me something,” I start.
“Anything.”
“What’s your name?”
“Hawk.”
I laugh. “Your real name. Your given name.”
“Oh, that,” he replies with a grin. “Tyson. Tyson Richards.”
“Tyson Richards,” I say, liking the way it sounds coming off my tongue. “And why do they call you Hawk?”
“Like I said. I always keep an eye out.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ve seen biker life, Mols. You know that things aren’t exactly sunshine and roses on this side of the world. I’m always watching. Nothing escapes my notice. Came in handy one day back when I was prospecting for the Kings.”
His eyes glaze over as if he’s seeing it play again in his mind’s eye. “Reaper and I were on a run, dropping off some product in the desert. Way before all this. We were just kids back then. But just before we finalized the deal, I noticed the quick flash of a sniper’s scope in the distance. I pulled Reaper back with barely a second to spare. Saved his life.”
"What happened?” I ask.
“Well, we survived. Obviously. But the bastards who double-crossed us… let’s just say we made sure they couldn’t hurt us again. But if I had noticed a split second later, his—and my—heads would have been piles of bloody goo on the Mojave floor. So I got patched in as Hawk, because I have eyes like one.”
“That’s… grim,” I note. “I was expecting a funny story.”
He shrugs. “It’s kind of funny. I mean, from a certain perspective.”
“A deranged perspective.”
He nods. “That is probably true.”
“Can I ask you something else?”
“Not if you’re going to make fun of me”
“I make no promises. But I’ll try.”
“All right then. Shoot.”
“Why are you helping me?” I ask. “Why have you put yourself and your club at risk and sacrificed all you have to help me? I’m a stranger to you.”
He takes a bit of the roll on his plate then washes it down with some iced tea. He looks off as if considering his answer. But then he turns back to me and shrugs.
