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.
“Maybe both,” I admitted, making him turn back toward me with drawn together brows.
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“It’s not a nice story,” I warned him.
“Well, have a seat, and let’s get into it,” he suggested, waving toward the table as he went to the stove to start making a plate.
I wasn’t sure I was ready.
Hell, I wasn’t sure I could ever be ready.
But it was time to tell somewhere what had happened to me.
How and why I’d disappeared for the last six and a half years.
CHAPTER FIVE
Abigail
“So, you went on a mission,” Cary prompted a few minutes later as he dropped down across from me. Like he hadn’t just dropped a full-on meal right in front of me like it was no big deal.
I’d never met a man who could cook.
In the society I’d grown up in, men wouldn’t even think about doing such a thing. If they even tried because their wife was sick or something, the whole community would blame the wife for her husband having to do such a ‘womanly’ task.
And with Raúl, well, there were cooks for such things.
I wasn’t even sure that Raúl knew the way to his own kitchen.
So the fact that Cary had just dropped a big plate in front of me with a hamburger, a giant baked potato loaded with butter, and a side of peas in front of me was just a little jarring. I couldn’t think past it to focus on my own story.
“Something wrong? Are you a vegetarian? We have veggie burgers in the freezer.”
“I’m having a hard time picturing a biker eating a veggie burger,” I admitted, smiling a little at the idea.
“I like ‘em on occasion. They’re Billie’s, though.”
“Same as my shirt,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“What’s a princess?” I asked.
“The daughter of one of the club members. The girls are princesses. The guys are legacies, if they choose to prospect.”
“Prospect means to try to join?” I asked as I reached for the burger, too hungry to feel weird about eating when he wasn’t.
“Yes.”
“Can the girls prospect?” I asked, even though I’d never seen a lady biker before.
“Ah, that’s a good question. I know with the older generation, under Reign’s leadership, they could prospect, but no woman was ever let in. I don’t know about how Fallon, our current president, feels about it. He’s with a former female biker president of her own MC. So I’m gonna imagine he’s more progressive. Why? You thinking about joining?” he teased. And it was teasing, since no one would ever look at me with my bones sticking out of my skin, and think I was going to be a badass biker.
“I’ve never been on a motorcycle,” I admitted before taking another bite of my burger, just barely managing to resist the pornographic sounds that bubbled up in my system at having some real food for the first time in days. Hell, if I were being completely honest, I hadn’t had anything like a burger in years.
“You ever feel up to it, I can take you out.”
“Yeah?” I asked, hearing the hope in my voice, excited about the possibility of being able to make my own decision, to do something just because it sounded interesting.
“Absolutely. But you have to do me a favor first.”
“What’s that?” I asked, stiffening.
“Stop starving yourself,” he said.
And, truly, there was nothing but genuine, very sweet concern in his voice. But I couldn’t help it. The laugh bubbled up and burst out of me, high-pitched, almost a little hysterical. It was just so insane to think I’d chosen anything that had happened to me since, well, my marriage.
“You okay?” Cary asked, looking even more concerned than he’d been about me not eating.
“Yes, sorry. It’s just… I didn’t choose to be this thin,” I told him, wincing down at my plate.
“Oh, fuck. Are you sick or something?” he asked, grimacing at his possible faux pas.
“No. No, it’s… it’s just a long story.”
“Right,” he agreed, nodding. “And it starts with a mission.”
“It starts with a mission. To Mexico,” I added, starting to dig into the potato.
“Why Mexico?”
“It was as close to home as I could think of,” I admitted. “I know you have had a very interesting life, and that you visited all these places. But I’d only ever known three places. My home, my husband’s home, and the church grounds. The prospect of a new country and a new culture was scary. So Mexico felt more familiar than, say, Tokyo or South Africa. Though, in retrospect, maybe I would have gone there and rediscovered faith and purpose.”