Page 40 of Misguided
Tears are shed, smiles aplenty, and I’m greeted with nothing but sheer relief that the rumors they’d heard weren’t true—I’m alive and well. Safe and sound.
Murphy holds a stiff drink out for me, his lips curled into a type of apology. “Wish we could have been reunited under better circumstances, girlie.”
“Yeah.” I take the tumbler from him. “Me too.”
The liquor burns its way down my throat as I search out the room for Dog. I find him near the back with one of the property girls circling nearby. Yet his focus is solely and squarely on me.
I like it: the warm buzz it gives me that rivals the alcohol, and the ridiculous pride I have at being what he wants over the eye-candy on offer.
“You goin’ to tell us the real story, then?” Digits asks. “How is it we thought you were another casualty of Carlos and yet here you are?”
Murphy smacks him in the back of the head, with a scowl. “Have some fuckin’ respect, brother. You think she wants to rehash it all right this very second?”
Digits looks suitably apologetic, and yet all I want to do is hug the shit out of Murphy. He gets it. The last thing I want to do is relive the infuriating fact that I was the one Daddy decided to save, when both he and Dana sacrificed all for our club.
Why? Why did he do that?
“If it’s okay with you all,” I say, setting the empty tumbler down, “I might take ten minutes to myself.” I’m met with sympathetic smiles and a few nods. “It’s a bit tiring to be honest.” Not to mention the toll ten hours on the bike has taken on my body.
“Sure thing,” Murphy agrees.
Crackers nods and then jerks his head toward the stairs in a silent order to go as he pulls a whore onto his knee.
As celebrated as my return is, I’m no fool. My presence has injected a healthy dose of grief back into the place that’ll only be flushed out the best way they know how: getting intoxicated and losing themselves in each other.
The night’s about to get very rowdy.
I catch Dog’s eye as I head for the entrance and the grand staircase, and flick my eyes in a silent request for him to join me. He ducks his chin a little, not enough for anyone to really notice, but enough that I know he understands what I asked.
He’s probably playing it cool around prying eyes, which is understandable. Neither of us is ready to answer the questions that come with it all just yet, I don’t think.
The house has been painted and redecorated since I left, the walls a magnificent black. I wouldn’t have thought it the best color to paint the place, but it actually pulls off real nice, especially with the artwork that has been hung along the walls.
I run my hand over the painted surfaces as I make my way up the stairs and then down the hall to what should still be my room.
Everything is exactly as I left it. The familiarity is comforting, but at the same time its shrine-like feel leaves me a little creeped out. I walk into the room and collapse on the bed, closing my eyes and breathing in the familiar scents: my perfume, the lavender sachet that I kept to help me sleep, and the undertones of conditioned leather that drift from my open closet.
I roll my head to the side, hands clasped over my stomach, and stare at the clothing that hangs neatly inside. My throat swells as I gaze at the cropped leather vests, the black jeans and leather pants, motorcycle boots all lined up in a row beside my sky-high heels. It’s as though I’m staring at the shell of a different woman, someone I dreamed of being.
How can I simply slide into all that again and just transform in the blink of an eye? I drift my gaze to the left as Dog appears at my door and realize how. After all, he does it every day, doesn’t he?
“What’s on your mind?” he asks as he gently eases the door most of the way closed.
I point to the clothes. “Wondering who she is.”
“You,” he murmurs, sitting down at the foot of the bed. He reaches out and strokes my shin, and in a strange way, it brings me peace just having his touch. “Put some of it on.”
I shake my head, a sad smile pulling at my lips. “I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“That’s not who I am anymore.” I push up on my elbows to see him better. “It’s shallow don’t you think? The single purpose of being something pretty for everyone to admire?”
His chest rises with the deep breath he sucks in, and he stands, eyeballing the closet. I watch with interest as he crosses the room and moves the garments around, seemingly checking each and every one out before he selects an outfit.
“You think art is shallow?” he asks. “Paintings and photos? Sculpture?”
I shake my head, pushing myself up to sit as Dog lays out a pair of leather pants, a tight gray V-neck shirt, and my favorite vest; black leather stitched with an intricate design of roses and skulls.