He is wrong.
I always needed Whistler. I needed him to show me who I was as a person, as a woman. He showed me I wasn’t weak, but capable. The strength I have wouldn’t have been found if it wasn’t for him. I used to be afraid of my own shadow, my own voice, my own opinion, my own thoughts, but not anymore.
“You’re so wrong, Whistler,” I say to him, stroking the side of his cheek. “I’ll always need you to remind me how much of a fighter I really am.”
Whistler is the best man I’ve ever known, the kindest, the fiercest, the kind always willing to fight for what’s right, for what he loves.
Not many men embrace love. So many think it’s a weak emotion, but not these men. Not the Hellhounds. They run off the feeling, they thrive for it, they need it, they want it.
They are different.
They don’t fight for hate.
Their fight always has something that their enemies don’t and it’s love. Either for someone else, like me, or for each other. Love isn’t always intimate but consists of so many other relationships.
Being in love is only one out of a million reasons to fight to survive.
I’m not sure how long I sit there and wait for my new family to wake up and I don’t care. They are all alive and breathing, and that’s all that matters.
One is the first to get up. He pays me no mind and staggers as he stands, then does his best to hurry to the other room to grab Taylor. I watch him take his shirt off and tug it over her head to cover her. He doesn’t know how to touch her, she’s so hurt, and he doesn’t want to cause more pain. One is devastated and I can tell he is getting emotional as he buries his head in his hands.
He finally swings her into his arms and walks her out.
“Let’s go home,” One announces, holding a sleeping Taylor whose head is pressed against his chest.
“Home,” Whistler repeats, groggily. He palms my cheek, and I close my eyes, leaning into his touch. “I am home.”
“You always know the right things to say.” I kiss his inner wrist before Princess comes over to get Whistler to his feet.
It takes a few of us to help get Whistler up and out the door. He was the last one down so he’s the last one to get up. Everyone is moaning and groaning, holding their hands to their heads.
We’re all walking by Whistler’s downed bike and a wave of guilt hits me. “I’m so sorry for stealing it.”
“I don’t care,” he says, lifting it off the ground. Whistler takes the keys from my pocket and dangles them in the air. Then tries to start it. It grumbles to life, and he grins. “Plus, it runs. That’s a bonus.” He wraps his arms around me, his body still unstable as he tries to get his footing. “I really only wanted you safe, Cupcake. You’re what matters and I’m so fucking proud of you. I know what you had to do wasn’t easy.”
“It was,” I admit. “I hate to admit it, but it was the easiest thing I’ve ever had to do. I feel no guilt or remorse. Maybe I should, but I hope he rots in hell.”
“Now we just have to find his father to rot down there with him,” Whistler says, reminding me that there is a part of this situation that isn’t resolved. I’m not as worried about his father. Kenneth was my enemy, but his father is my dad’s, so I’ll have to keep an eye out.
“Come on. Home. Shower. Bed. Sleep.”
“Yeah, you aren’t driving. You can barely stand.”
“How is it that I’m riding bitch for the second time today?” He throws his leg over the bike and his large arms wrap around me and squeeze. “Don’t kill me,” he jokes.
“Now there is one thing I could never do.” A piece of the bike falls to the ground and clinks as I drive away, following the other tired bikers down the road.
“I can’t look,” Whistler sadly says, burying his face in my back.
I’ll never forgive myself for wrecking his bike, but without me stealing it, none of this would have happened today. Someone had to make the decision to come here and get shit done.
And that someone was me.
It feels good. I feel confident and empowered.
Almost like nothing can stop me.
I slam on the breaks when I see a puppy on the side of the road. I guess there is one thing that can stop me…
“Shit! Woman! Damn it, be easy with her.”
I squeal as I hop off the bike and run into the ditch, picking up the wet, cold fluffball.
“Oh no,” Whistler grumbles.
“Can we keep him?”
“Like I could ever tell you no,” he says, and I give him a big kiss on the cheek. “What will you name him?”
“What about Sprinkles? Sprinkles and Cupcakes go together.”
Whistler’s face softens and he scratches the puppy under his chin. “Yeah. Yeah, they do, Cupcake. Come on. I’ll hold him. Let’s go home and get Sprinkles warm.”
Whistler is more than my home.
He’s my sanctuary. My haven.
And as long as I have him to go home to, I’ll fight just like he swings.
Hard. Unforgiving. And relentless.
One month later
“Welcome to The Pink Penguin Motel where all the quacks stay,” Brayden automatically says when he hears the bell jingle. “My name is Brayden and I’ll be happy to be at your surf−ice.” The snicker he does at the end every time he says that makes me smile.
The man hasn’t changed since the last time we saw him.
“Hey, Brayden. I have a reservation under—”
Brayden’s bloodshot eyes look away from the TV. Baywatch is on. “Whistler. Bro! Oh, and bro−ette.” He bows to Charlie, making her giggle. “Right on. You’re back. You can’t resist the pull of The Pink Penguin, right? It’s rad.”
“It’s…so rad, Brayden,” I say, glancing over to see Charlie smiling.
Brayden flips his long hair over his shoulder. “Dude, I’ve been working on my whistle. You ready for it?”
Oh, God. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard this from other people when they learn about my road name. I lean against the counter, folding my hands together. “Let me hear,” I say.
He puckers his lips, then flicks his cheek with his fingers making the sound of a water droplet.
“It’s cool, right?”
“That’s not a whistle, Brayden.” I show him how it’s done, whistling with my lips, not my bat.
Brayden snorts as he laughs. “I’m so fucking high, man. I’ve been practicing that whistle for three hours knowing you were coming.”
I grin. “I appreciate your efforts, but maybe don’t tell the guests you’re high,” I lean in and whisper.
“Right. Good idea.” He reaches for the key that says 3A and hands it over. “Oh, you’re looking at the proud new owner of The Pink Penguin Motel.” Brayden straights his nametag and under his name it says, ‘CEO, Owner, and Surf−ice giver.’
“Well, congratulations, Brayden. I had no idea you owned this place.”
“Yeah, yeah, I love it. Plus, the waves are wicked over here for surfing. Needed to make something of myself, ya know? Became a businessman.”