The Biker and the Loner (Oil and Water #3)- S. Ann Cole Page 0,59

dragged to this one tonight in an attempt to "cheer" me up.

Cheer. I don't even remember what that tastes like. Cheerios, sure. But ‘cheer’ is a foreign concept at this point.

It's a deliberate deprivation, though. I don't deserve to taste cheer. I killed Kathy. I let Papà down. I deserve nothing but pain, sadness, and loneliness for the rest of my life.

Kathy sliced her wrists and bled out on my bathroom floor because I left her.

When Papà and I were struggling, she had waltzed into our lives and spun it around. Gave us a lifestyle that we never dreamed of having. And all she wanted from us in return was to love her, stay with her, never leave her.

But we both left her. First Papà, and then me.

She's gone because I believed my happiness was more important than hers. Chasing freedom from the woman who'd given us everything. Everything.

She was right. I am an ungrateful bitch.

That's why I push him away. Because he's happiness. He's freedom. He's forward. He's future. He's life and new birth.

He's all the things that I don’t deserve.

And he deserves better. Better than me. Because I’m not good. I'm a Delilah. I break promises and hearts and I kill the ones who love and care about me.

I deserve to be alone.

"…and then I was like, 'who cares? We only come here for the fries anyway!'" Isaac's date concludes with a loud cackle.

"Right?" I lilt.

I've no idea what she's talking about, but I find that if I keep an ear out for certain inflections and say the right words at those points, it tricks them into thinking I'm listening, and if they think I’m listening, they'll yammer on and on. Which is what I prefer—them doing all the talking.

"I'm gonna go get another beer," she says, getting to her feet. "Do you want one?"

"Nope." I hold up my glass of gin and tonic, flashing her a plastic smile. "I'm good."

"Be right back."

Please, take your time.

I watch her leave. Isaac runs through these women like underwear. It baffles me how he even finds the time for it. The guy works as a midday mixologist in a bar and grill, and he spends almost all his free time practicing with the band and writing songs, so I can’t understand when and where the women come in. Unless he’s plucking them from off the internet or something.

Taking another sip of gin and tonic, I glance dispassionately around the bar. And that's when I see her, coming straight toward our table, a bottle of beer in hand, her unapologetic stare on me. Ripped black jeans, black, sleeveless 2-Pac t-shirt, studded leather choker and bracelets, arms inked with tats, jet-black hair with a full forehead bang, and shitkicker boots.

Kendra Tisdale. My one true friend, who I've also been shoving out of my life because she represents all the things I don't deserve. Genuine friendship and care. Laughter. Bond. Mirth. Consistency.

I don't deserve her, and she doesn't deserve an unstable, unreliable asshole like me.

Most importantly, she reminds me of him, the love of my life; I can't see her and not think of him.

She walks right up to the table and flips What’sHerFace’s chair around before she straddles it, her arms propped on the top.

"Yo," she acknowledges me with a chin jerk, then promptly turns her attention to the stage where Isaac is performing.

Idly, nervously, I drag my index finger through the condensation on my glass. "Isaac didn't say you were coming..."

"Why would he need to?" she asks without looking from the stage. "To ask your permission? He's not your friend, Ley. He's mine. Remember that."

She's right. I'd chosen Isaac as my human blanket in this time for a reason. I'd packed up and left Scratch, quit my job at Tipsy Scoop, and went straight to Isaac.

Scratch cares too much. He wants to take my pain away. He wants to fight my demons for me. He wants to touch me, hold me, and make it all better. He wants to be my white knight, my prince, my savior...and I can’t let him.

Isaac cares, but not enough. He wants to sleep with me. To conquer the unconquerable. To win me. He has lust, desire, fascination, and fantasy. All those things run only so deep—which means he's not consumed with trying to save me.

I'd anticipated that he would get tired of my sorrow and moroseness after a few days and leave me alone, and that’s exactly what I wanted. To be left alone. Save for