Splinters of You (Retired Sinners MC #1) - Anne Malcom Page 0,42
interior of his truck. It was an older model. In good condition, clean to the point of obsessive. Not even a rogue candy bar wrapper or beer can. Then again, looking at his biceps and stomach, he wasn’t pounding many beers or eating candy bars.
I considered him more of a whisky man. Maybe I just wanted something similar between us that wasn’t our darkness.
“Why do you feel responsible for me?” I blurted, forgetting the vow of furious silence I had promised myself I would keep. I was not one to break promises to myself, especially when men were concerned. More accurately, men who had the idea they could control me.
Though, it didn’t even seem like he was trying to control me. He gave me choices. Escapes. And if I read the situation right—which I knew I was—then he wanted me to take those escapes. I was not his prisoner. Somehow, he was mine.
I liked that. Relished that. But I was greedy. I wanted more. I wanted the reasons. The words.
He didn’t answer for a long while. “Because I made a choice, not to walk past you lying there. Made a choice to step in front of fate, destiny, whatever and I changed the course of your life. Extended it. I’m not a man of honor, so it’s not about that. But even I have to have a code to live by.”
He didn’t make eye contact with me. That irked me. I didn’t care that he was driving, that he would put us both in danger in order to give me the eye contact I craved.
“You have a code?” I repeated, making sure to make my disbelief show. “No. That’s not it.”
“And you think you know me well enough to make that call?” he asked, vague irritation in his voice.
That was satisfying.
“Yeah, I know you well enough to make that call,” I replied.
He stared at the road. “Well, you’ll figure you’re wrong sooner or later. Sometimes, Magnolia, life isn’t a fucking a story. Not like one of your books. Sometimes things just are the way they are. No embellishment. No bullshit.”
He surprised me enough to keep me silent for the ride home. He had read my books? At the very least, he knew I was an author. What kind of author. But that wasn’t a revelation. Anyone with an internet connection could find that out.
“Out,” he commanded.
I jerked slightly at the tone. The violence in it.
We were at my place. He was staring straight forward and the truck was still running. He made no move to get out, or ask me if I needed help.
I liked that. He was kicking me out of his truck without a second thought.
I opened the door and looked toward the house. “You’re right, Saint,” I said, not looking at him. “Sometimes people are simple. No bullshit. But trust me, baby. You’re not simple.”
Then I got out of the truck, going to great pains to not stumble, to not limp or look back when I walked to the door.
Chapter 9
“She had a man. One that stalked through the woods at the night. Coming to her. He didn’t care about her. No, he cared for no one. He could’ve been a problem if he cared. He could’ve killed me as easy as breathing. But he left her. Defenseless. Waiting for me.”
“Ah, I was worried you weren’t going to make it in for your early afternoon whisky,” Deacon said, putting his book—my book—down when I sat on what was now considered “my” seat. He was already pouring by the time I put my purse down on the stool beside me.
“I’m a writer with a deadline, no book, and thousands of missed calls from her agent. What makes you think I’m not making it into her local dive bar to day drink?” I snapped.
He didn’t comment on the tone, which he had come to expect from me. I was not a cheerful patron of the bar and I wasn’t about to force myself to be in order to make him more comfortable.
“I think I should put that testimonial on our Facebook page.”
I snatched the glass. “You don’t have a Facebook page. If you did, I wouldn’t be sitting here.”
“True,” he said, nodding.
My car had turned up at my house sometime in the night. I hadn’t heard it. The lights didn’t wake me up. It was concerning, to say the least, that I was a deep enough sleeper to not notice that. It should’ve been concerning.