Dauntless (Sons of Templar MC #5)(37)

He nodded, crossing his arms and screwing up his face. “Fucked if I know why chicks are so obsessed with that shit. I personally think I could entertain you much better.” His eyes flared. “But whatever, I’m not suicidal enough to argue with a woman on the rag.”

“Do I look like a girl who watches Ryan Gosling movies?” I asked him, cocking a hip.

His gaze roved over me. “Well, you’ve got tits and a vagina. I thought that was all you needed.”

I rolled my eyes. “Jesus Christ,” I muttered.

“So, no Ryan Gosling.” He sounded utterly pleased.

I looked back at him. “No Ryan Gosling.”

He grinned mischievously. “The lady has made an excellent choice. Now write down what you need, sizes and shit.” He held out his phone.

I didn’t take it. “Why would I need to write that down?” I asked in an even voice.

“So I don’t offend you and make you hate me forever by getting you the wrong size pants. Too big and I think you’re fat. Too small and I’m trying to tell you to lose weight in order to fit into them, again making you think that I think you’re fat.” His gaze flickered over me again, his jaw hardening. “Which you’re not. Far from it. Which is why I’m picking up every junk food known to harden the arteries of the citizens of this great nation. Put some meat on those bones.”

I gritted my teeth and folded my arms. It pissed me off, the concern. Mostly because I liked it. Liked the fact that someone was worried about my skeletal frame, wanted to do something as stupid as shovel candy in my face to change that. That’s what pissed me off. Then I was pissed off at him for making me feel like that in the midst this entire ordeal.

And I was embarrassed. Paralyzingly so. Because he was seeing me like this. Seeing how the junk had defeated me, broken me down and turned me into a… junkie.

So my emotions were not what most people would call stable, hence my reaction. “I’m unsure why I would need to write it down considering I’m going to be the one buying my own ‘shit.’ Period or otherwise. It’s not your job to dress and feed me like I’m your junkie Barbie,” I snapped.

His eyes blazed. “That’s not what this is, Becky.”

I glared at him. “Then what is this?” I gestured around the room, which I would have totally dug had I not been in that state of mind. The decorating was boho chic mixed with rock enthusiast. Alas, I was not in the mood to marvel at the décor. “You whisking me off to your little cabin by the sea the second you hear I’m ‘drowning’ in the sea of heroin and addiction. You think you can rescue me from it all and I’ll cling to your motorcycle boot in gratitude? So you can get your masculine alpha card by saving the helpless female? That ain’t gonna happen,” I informed him. Well, maybe not informed. More like screamed.

He watched me for a long moment. The longest. My chest moved up and down with my rapid breaths, brought on by fury. Fury that was a little misdirected. But it was easier to shout at someone than look at myself.

“I offered to get your shit because you’re dead on your feet. You dropped off like a f*ckin’ stone the moment you relaxed enough to let sleep claim you. Never seen anything like it,” he said quietly. “Guessing that entire delicious package, that sharp mind included, is on its last legs. Been holding yourself together for so f*ckin’ long it’s inevitable. You need to sleep, Becky. Pure and simple. That’s the reason why I was gonna go in alone. That and I guessed you needed some time here, alone. To fight sleep like a gladiator and to snoop around this place. Then have a moment to let the shit you’ve been running from catch up to you. Process it without anyone else around.” He glanced around. “There’s nothing here.” He paused, his eyes cutting to me. “Nothing to tempt you. And I know you well enough to know you’re stubborn as f*ck. Once you make a decision, it’d take a lot to make you stray. So I’ll guess you won’t go runnin’ for a fix if I leave you alone for a couple hours. That’s what that was. But you want to fight off oblivion and the rest for a couple hours to walk around a shitty department store to get no-doubt shitty clothes, be my guest.”

He then opened the door, gesturing me to go through it.

I blinked at him half a dozen times, looking for the words.

Sorry. That’s the word you’re looking for.

I pursed my lips together and made my combat boot move. It felt like it was laden with cement, that’s how tired I was. Now that he’d mentioned it, it was hard to ignore. As was the constant itch, but it was better with him ’cause I was either pissed off, amused, or turned on when I had him around. Not craving. But I didn’t say that, nor that five-letter word. I just walked through the door to buy shitty clothes I couldn’t afford.

But Lucky didn’t hold a grudge. He whistled in the truck on the way to the town—smaller than Amber, little more than a strip mall and a handful of shops—tapping his tattooed fingers on the steering wheel as if he didn’t have a care in the world. As if he hadn’t inexplicably taken on a recovering junkie and her boatload of baggage. Like such an endeavor was a hobby, like stamp collecting.

Me, I silently seethed beside him. See, I could hold a grudge. I was an expert at it. I still hadn’t forgiven the girl who stole my sticker collection in my third foster home. Hannah, that total bitch. I was directing my anger at him and his irritating cheerfulness when, even at the height of my fury, I knew it was at myself. For being such a colossal bitch and him being nothing but nice. Weird, off-the-charts cuckoo and also f*cking hot as balls, but nice. And alpha. It was a very strange mix, one I didn’t think I’d ever seen in my life. And I’d seen men. A lot.