Page 14 of Owned By Knuckles
"I know. But still." She's quiet for a moment, her hands clasped in her lap. "You're the first person in a really long time who's been kind to me without wanting something in return."
"I'm not a saint, Savannah." The words come out harsher than I intended. "Don't make me into something I'm not."
"I'm not. I just..." She trails off, looking down at her hands. "I'm just trying to say thank you."
I should leave. Should get out of this room before I say something or do something that fucks this up. But she asked me to stay, and I'm apparently incapable of doing the smart thing tonight.
"Your food's getting cold," I say instead, nodding toward the bag on the dresser.
"I'll eat in a minute. Can you sit? Please? You're making me nervous standing there like you're about to bolt."
She's not wrong. I am about to bolt. But I cross the room and sit in the chair by the window, as far from the bed as I can get while still being in the same room.
"Better?" I ask.
"Better." She pulls the robe tighter around herself. "Can I ask you something?"
"Depends on the question."
"How long have you been with the club?"
"Long enough." I don't want to talk about this. Don't want to get into my history or why Pope gave me a patch or the two years I spent on the streets before that. "You should eat."
"I will. I just..." She hesitates. "I just want to talk for a minute. To something other than the inside of my own head. It's been a really long day."
Understatement of the fucking year.
"What do you want to talk about?" I ask.
"I don't know. Anything. Everything. Nothing." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I don't even know anymore. This morning I was getting married. Now I'm sitting in a hotel room with a biker I just met, wearing a bathrobe and eating cold french fries. My brain can't process any of it."
"You want to talk about him? The groom?"
Her expression shutters immediately. "Not really."
"Might help."
"Might make it worse." She's quiet for a long moment. "Like I told you, his name is Derek. Derek Marsh. We were together for three years. Engaged for one. And I spent most of that time trying to convince myself it wasn't as bad as it was."
I wait. She keeps talking, the words spilling out like she's been holding them for too long.
"He hit me. Not all the time. Just when I made him angry. And I could always make him angry, saying the wrong thing, wearing the wrong outfit, talking to the wrong person. Everything was a potential trigger and I never knew which one would set him off."
Her voice is flat, emotionless. Like she's reading from a script.
"I told my mother after the first time. She said I must have provoked him. Said Derek was a good man with a good job, and I needed to learn how to handle him better." She laughs bitterly. "So, I stopped telling people. Stopped asking for help. Just... survived."
"Until today."
"Until today. I was standing in the bridal suite, looking at myself in the mirror, and I realized if I went through with it, he was going to kill me eventually. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but someday. And I just... couldn't. Couldn't do it. So, I ran."
The casual way she talks about her own murder makes me want to break something. Preferably Derek's face.
"You did the right thing," I tell her.
"Did I? I left everyone at the wedding. My family, his family, two hundred guests. The photographer, the caterer, the band. I ruined everything."
"You saved your own life."
