Page 100 of Diesel's Perseverance
The youth sputtered and gasped for air.
Myla suppressed a shiver and was ready to intervene when Diesel released the mugger’s throat, threw him to the ground, and kicked him hard in the stomach. The other teen still lay on the ground clutching his belly.
“Let me help you up,” he said to the frightened woman. He offered his hand, and she took it.
“Thank you so much.” Her words were heavily accented. “I took the shortcut because too hot. Mi esposo told me no do.”
“Your husband’s right about the alley. It’s not safe.”
Her brown eyes flicked between the two downed punks. “I never do again. I go by street where people are. You help me. You are un buen hombre.”
“Let me take you home.”
Suspicion flashed in her gaze as she studied him.
“I got my woman with me.”
A smile spread across her mouth. “Oh… sí… I go. Muchas gracias, señor.”
As Diesel bent down to pick up the woman’s bag, Myla hurried back to the truck. She settled into the passenger seat, put the keys in the ignition, and locked the doors. Her heart swelled, witnessing this side of him. He’d come to the woman’s rescue without any hesitation, not knowing what danger lurked behind that garage. Her pride at that moment mingled with a surge of affection and… love.Love. How is it possible I’m thinking ofthattoday of all days?But the feeling wasn’t new. It’d been growing the more time she spent with Diesel. And when she heard him call her “my woman,” she couldn’t believe it. Maybe it didn’t mean anything; that was just his way of speaking, but hearing those two words sent a flurry of butterflies to her stomach.
Diesel motioned for her to unlock the doors. The middle-aged woman climbed into the back of the truck.
“This is Josefina,” he said.
She half-turned around and met the woman’s gaze. “I’m Myla. Nice meeting you.” She noticed the woman pressed a tissue against her left knee.
“Mucho gusto,” the woman replied.
After dropping the woman off home, Diesel pulled in front of a house a few blocks away. He didn’t explain who the woman was; if he was surprised she hadn’t asked him, he didn’t show it.
“Be back soon,” he said, switching off the engine.
“Okay. Are you leaving the keys in case I have to make a quick getaway?” She chuckled.
He laughed. “Yeah. Keep the doors locked, and don’t roll the windows down too much. This isn’t the best neighborhood.”
“Really? I never would’ve guessed it. I figured you were taking me on the scenic route of the city.”
“Smartass.” He leaned over and tweaked her nose. “I’ll only be a sec.”
She watched him walk up the broken sidewalk to a small bungalow that looked like it’d been neglected for quite a while. The blue paint was faded and peeling and the railings on the wooden porch were missing. Several panes were shattered in the windows, and the shutters hung upon broken hinges.
The door opened, and a scrawny man with a thin beard down to his chest stood in the doorway. He gave Diesel a nod, then stood aside for the biker to enter. He shook his head no, and the guy’s gaze darted around before handing Diesel an envelope from inside his jacket. Diesel slipped the envelope into his jeans front pocket and then gave the guy what looked like a wad of bills. The man thumbed through the money, lifted his chin, and stepped back inside the house. Diesel turned around and walked quickly to the truck. Myla wondered if he had a gun stashed in the small of his back, tucked into the waistband of his jeans, or maybe a knife hidden in one of his boots. She’d read that a lot of outlaws carried weapons on their person, especially if they were anticipating trouble—and this was the perfect house and neighborhood for trouble.
“That wasn’t long, was it?” he said, sliding into the driver’s seat. He donned a pair of sunglasses and turned over the engine. Glancing at her, he smiled. “Let’s get something to eat.”
Once they drove out of the dilapidated neighborhood, Myla began to relax. She didn’t ask him anything about what had transpired back at that broken-down house because she was sure he would only tell her it was “club business,” but she was certain it had something to do with Peter Cano and where he was.
The sun was bright, and the calm ocean shimmered under it as waves lapped gently at the shore. Various colored towels, umbrellas, and bathing suits covered most of the sand. It was the height of tourist season, and beachgoers were sunbathing, swimming, scolding children, eating, or flirting with a boy or girl they just met.
Diesel and Myla ate outside at a small restaurant on the pier. Seagulls glided and hovered above, waiting for the chance to swoop up a morsel of food dropped by a patron. Diesel munched on fish tacos while Myla ate a spicy shrimp appetizer. They talked about their likes and dislikes, and their favorite memories of Freddy, and Diesel shared more of his childhood memories. He told her why Harleys were the only motorcycle to own, and she told him about her secret desire to own a small art gallery.
By the time they’d finished their lunch, two rounds of cold beer for him and white wine for her, and the gooiest hot fudge and marshmallow sundae she’d ever had, the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in a glory of orange and dusky pink. The beach had thinned out quite a bit, and Diesel suggested a stroll along the shore before heading back to the clubhouse.
When they arrived back at the club, Myla was exhausted. It had been a long day with a flurry of emotions that ranged from deep sadness to bubbling happiness. She couldn’t imagine anyone she’d rather spend the day with than with him.
The club members bumped fists with Diesel and diverted their gazes with her when they walked through the main room. Once in their own quarters, Diesel tugged her to him and held her tight.
