Losing Me, Finding You(63)

“What does it stand for?” I ask as he shudders at my touch.

Austins points to the tattoo and smiles.

“Motorcycles, madness, money,” he says, but doesn't explain any further and instead decides to kiss me with the taste of my own body tainting his lips, pausing just long enough to drag me into the shower and pin me up against the tiles before he's back at it again.

I let my hands trail up his arms, savoring the firm, rounded muscles and the full sleeves of tattoos that I've always admired but never had the time to quite appreciate. Intricate webs of art tangle around one another and color Austin's skin with this tapestry, this story, carved from ink and skin like some sort of fresco. I stare at them for as long as I can, until the water soaks my hair and tugs the soggy strands over my eyes, blending them with Austin's sandy locks until it's hard to see where one face ends and one begins.

When his knee comes up between my legs and spreads them, I open gently, sliding my arms up around his neck, so that I have something strong and sturdy to hold onto, something that's absolutely, one hundred percent worth digging my fingers into and keeping hold of.

When Austin angles his shaft up into me, sliding deep and holding himself there, pressed against me, I don't know that he knows we're making love. But I do. We don't have it yet, but it's the process that counts, the making that counts. I hear another bit of wisdom run through my head, but this time, it's not the words of a fictional character but someone I know very well, someone who I have finally decided I may actually miss – my mama.

Please don't say that it's strange to think of your mother when you're having sex with a man you might actually like because really, that's the best place for it. Mom's are supposed to guide us, to show us the way, to help us understand what we want, so we can find that secret, mysterious, thing, that one, golden egg in a sea of white: happiness.

So as Austin begins to move inside of me, I think that maybe, just maybe, I could have that. It's just a gut feeling, of course, and I could be entirely wrong; he could dump me here tomorrow and take off into the sunset, but I don't think so. I think my mother's words ring truer here than they ever have before.

When you start something, make sure that you're willing to take the time to finish it right because, honey, the work you put into it will be more than worth it in the end. The best things always are.

Whatever it is that Austin and I have together … this, this feeling I can't quite describe, I'm going to figure it out and going to damn well make sure I finish it. If it's love, then I'll make sure that it's right, that it's a bodice ripping, head spinning, stomach aching, twirling, tumbling, spinning cascade of life. And if it's not, well, then I always have Sali Bend's words of wisdom to fall back on.

Enjoy the ride because sometimes that's all you have. Sometimes, on the other side there's nothing but a trash can a whole bunch of people there to watch you throw up in it.

I hope that this time, Sali is wrong.



Chapter 44

I don't know what it is that happens in that bathroom between Amy and me, but when we get out, all I want to do is hold her tight against me and breathe in the scent of her hair.

That shit has never happened to me before.

I can't say that I'm a disrespectful guy or that I'd go so far as to call myself a whore like Beck, but I've also never felt the urge to just lay there with a woman, touching her but not having sex with her. I'm twenty-eight years old, so it's not like I haven't had the opportunity. There have been plenty of nice girls like Amy and even more naughty ones like Mireya, but I didn't feel like this.

I'm a bit spooked, to be honest, and the whole damn thing sort of makes me want to run, but I don't.

I f*cking can't.

I f*cking cannot get up and leave this girl here alone, not after seeing her all banged up and covered in blood. I also have to tell her the truth about Mireya, so she understands. I want everything to be clear, so I'm going to be as honest as I can be about it. Sawyer's a good friend of mine, and I hope she'll always be. But you chose Amy. I don't delve into the symbolism behind what I did, how I pretty much laid it flat out for the group in the lobby: Amy is mine.

How else are they supposed to interpret that? I mean, Beck can joke about the 'Code of the Road' all he wants, but in some ways, it's true. There are a set of rules that are to be followed not because you signed somethin' or because somebody told ya to, but because that's the way they've always been and you know they're right. There's the obvious ones of course: don't kill, don't steal, don't disrespect. But then there's the little things, like not f*cking with other folk's bikes. And of course, stating your intent. Intent is friggin' everything out here, and I've just made mine loud and clear.

My heart starts to pump, and I wonder if Amy can feel it, if she knows that I like her more than the average girl. I don't know, but I promise myself that I'm not going to say a damn thing. Besides, I could be wrong. This could pass like I thought it would. Maybe after a few more rounds in the bedroom, Amy will lose her appeal and she can blend into the rest of Triple M, just another friendly face with no romantic attachment. Bullshit.

I sigh and my breath ruffles Amy's hair.

“Austin?” she asks me. “Are you awake?”

“I shouldn't be, sugar,” I tell her, thinking of our long ride tomorrow and about Fort Clinton and Kent and all the other crap that's going on. “Since we're leaving tomorrow morning, bright and early.” I pause. “But I've gotta tell you something.”