Unrequited (Fallen Aces MC #1) (4 page)

SIX

Elena

six days later

Papa’s getting worse. The home-care nurse pulled me aside during her visit on Thursday and told me to make preparations.

“His lung capacity is falling fast,” she’d said. “It might be a good time to check that everything is in place.”

Everything what? He doesn’t have a funeral plan. He only had health-care because it was drilled into him from Mama that he needed to look after himself so he could see me grow up. I guess somewhere along the way he decided he’d seen enough.

My running shoes hit the pavement in even strides. Something good came out of my angry run from Carlos the other day—I found a riverside track I never knew existed. Trees line the concrete path that’s cracked and risen in places where the roots push through, and the water is only a few feet to my left. The setting is peaceful, serene, and exactly what I need.

I’ve run this loop every night since, enjoying the time to clear my mind. I file through the issues that hang over me when I wake each morning as I run, sorting them by what’s most urgent, what I can change.

What I can’t.

Carlos hasn’t been in contact since our spat. I should be relieved; it’s exactly what I wanted. But silence is unnerving. I’ve got no idea what he’s doing when he’s quiet. I’ve got no idea what
I’ve
done by getting offside with the man. My punishment will come—he doesn’t take to disrespect lightly. I just wish I knew what it would be . . .

I pass the point I normally turn off and reach the end of the track where it connects back onto the street when I first spot him. The path climbs up for a few yards, rising until it comes to a set of steps that lead out to a row of cafés on the outskirts of the shopping precinct.

And there, seated at an outdoor table, looking every part the hipster, except for his leather cut, is King.

I slow to a walk and quiet my approach while I climb the steps and pocket my earbuds. His head is down, and he stares into his coffee cup as though it contains the answers to whatever he’s thinking about. I’ve never felt the urge to just touch someone so badly. My fingers itch to know how his beard would feel as I traced the line of his jaw, or the tautness of his shoulders as my palms skimmed the rise and fall of his muscles.

At least I don’t wear my ring when I exercise—yay for small victories.
My fingers run nervously over the bare flesh as I step up on to the street level. The road comes to a dead end; the line of cafés start straight ahead, and the river lies to my left. He has no idea I’m there as I approach from behind, spotting his bike backed in against the guttering.

“Doesn’t really look like your scene,” I remark as I drop on to the seat opposite him.

He looks up, his eyes wide at first, and then his lips spread into a slow smile. “Found you.”

“I believe I found you,” I correct, snatching up a sugar pack to ease my nerves. “How long have you been sitting here?”

He swipes the screen of his phone, which sits on the table, and hums. “About three hours.”

“Must be a good café.” I look indoors at the cabinets filled with savories and cakes.

“Good for why I picked it.” He spins the phone on the table, the corners knocking the glass ashtray beside it every so often.

“And why did you pick it?” My throat tightens, my heart beating with an aching intensity. The sugar pack weaves through my fingers at breakneck speed.

“Exactly this.” He chuckles quietly to himself, smiling down at the phone as he brings it to a stop under his palm. “I wanted to see you again, and well, here you are.”

I drop the sugar, staring wide-eyed at him. He’s been here for hours, waiting, watching, and hoping to see me again. What if I’d still run the same route as I used to? How long would he have waited before he gave up? “It’s been close to a week since I saw you at the store,” I point out.
Not that anyone’s counting.

“I know.”

“And you’ve been here since—”

“Couple of days after,” he interrupts.

Wow.
“How long did you plan to keep coming back?”

“Until either I saw you walk into the store again”—he motions to the corner shop we’d met at down the end of the street—“or until they put a restraining order out on me for bein’ a public nuisance.” His lips curl up at the corners, his eyes bright with his humor.

King’s been here, days on end, just to chance seeing me. I can’t even comprehend it. He’d do that . . . because of me? “I thought you were from Lincoln?”

“I am.”

And
he rode six hours to do it. “How’s your arm?” I reach out to take his left hand, turning it over so his arm does, too. A reddened line with small black stitches shows. “It
was
bad. You lied.”

“Nothin’ a bit of needlework didn’t fix.” He prods the scarring, making me wince as I withdraw my hand, rubbing away the tingling sensation left in the wake of our touch.

“So . . .” I fuss with the sugar pack, stuffing it back in the numbered holder that’s in the center of the table. “What should we talk about?”

He picks up the half-drunk cup of coffee and swirls the contents. “I guess you could tell me how your week’s been?”

I smile and drop my head. “You don’t want to know.”

“Yeah, I do.”

I look up, expecting a teasing smile, but instead I find genuine interest. He sits with his arms braced either side of his coffee while he waits on an answer. “My papa,” I explain. “He’s not well. I live with him and look after him.”

“I thought you were staying with friends?”

Damn it.
“That’s not exactly what I said . . .”

“Still . . .”

“I guess I just didn’t want to have to talk to you about him at the time. I don’t know.” I run a hand over my hair in frustration and finish by pulling my ponytail through a semi-closed fist. “Our relationship isn’t the best; I resent being there most of the time.”

I avoid his gaze and stare down at the table instead. He’s bound to make all sorts of assumptions about how heartless I must be to say such a thing. I’ve just admitted I’d rather be anywhere than taking care of Papa—well, almost anywhere.

“What’s wrong with him?” King takes a sip of the coffee and then runs his tongue along his top lip to catch the droplets in his moustache.
He doesn’t care about what I said.

I breathe a little easier. “Cancer.” He eyes my hand as I spin the sugar holder around to read the special that’s advertised on the back.

King studies me for a moment, his fingers twitching on the tabletop. “You don’t seem very affected by any of it.” He snatches up his pack of cigarettes and lifts his eyebrows as if to ask if I mind.

I shake my head. “He’s not a nice man. He doesn’t deserve to have anyone care that he’s dying.” I look around the café at the other patrons while a strange silence falls between us. “Anyway. I’d rather not talk about him. Tell me how your week was.”

“Busy.” He lights the cigarette between his lips and then swirls the coffee again, studying it as it coats the walls of his mug. “Can’t really tell you much more than that.”

“Tell me about yourself then,” I say, eager to know as much as I can.

He smirks, squinting down at the cup as the liquid settles to the bottom. “What would you like to know first?”

“Why did you join a motorcycle club?”

He grins, cigarette poised between his lips. “Straight for the hard-hitters, huh?” Normally I’d balk at the habit, but on him, it seems almost natural that he would smoke.

“Straight to the one I’m most curious about,” I reply.

King downs the last of his drink and pushes the mug to the side of the table. “I joined because I felt like I belonged.”

“Simple.”

“It’s the truth of it.”

“You like it?”

He holds my gaze again and smiles. “I’m wearin’ the colors, ain’t I?”

I grin, ducking my head.
Touché.
He’s so easy to talk to—so relaxed. Such a contrast from how my days are normally spent.

“How long you been in America?” he asks as a waitress comes to collect his cup.

“Almost four years.”

He holds a hand up to the girl to indicate she should wait. “You like anythin’?”

“No, I’m fine.” I look up to the girl and smile. “Thank you.”

She returns to the kitchen with the dirty dish, leaving King to pick up where he left off. “You came here for your father?”

“Yes and no. He didn’t tell me he was sick at the time.” I catch King’s eye and give him a sad smile. “I probably wouldn’t have come if I’d known, and I think he knew that.”

“No?” His eyebrows peak. “Why did you come then, if you say you don’t get along?”

“He said he’d help me go to a good college.” I fidget with the earbuds hanging at my front. “I don’t think that’ll happen now, though.”

“What would you have studied?”

“Hadn’t decided yet. What would you have done if not the club?”

He traps my hand under his, pulling it away from my chest and placing it on the table. The connection scorches. “Probably what I did before the club.”

“Which was?” My throat tightens.
Did he feel that too?

“Carpenter’s apprentice. I had a year to go before I was certified in the trade.” He stubs his smoke out in the ashtray.

“You gave your job up to join the club?”

King shakes his head. “I could have kept doing it; a lot of the members work normal jobs.” He sighs and shrugs. “I just wasn’t feelin’ it any more—thought my time would be better invested in club business.”

We carry on swapping basics on ourselves, ending an afternoon where we started out as strangers as friends. I want that more than anything with him—friendship—but I want to know we have the chance to take things further, too. Each time he reveals something about himself, the more my assumptions about him are validated.

He’s kind, giving, and seems to always think of others before himself. He tells me about his family, about the tragedy that tore it apart when he was young, but of the strength of his parents and how he looks up to them.

He’s more than leather, skulls, and tattoos.

He’s fascinating.

I order a milkshake and sip on it while King recounts some of his favorite classic movies. His features light up when he describes a particular scene, his hands moving in grand gestures with the soft chink of the metal on his cuffs as he does. I try to suck the last of the milkshake through my straw, but every time I do it makes a horrible gurgle.

After half a dozen attempts, King’s lost where he was at in his story and looks at me while he chuckles. “You okay there?”

I finish the drink with one loud pull and smile. “I’m sorry. I was trying so hard not to interrupt you. You looked so passionate about . . .” I’ve forgotten the name of the movie, after all that.

“
Platoon
.”

“Right.” We both laugh.

“I’m enjoying this,” King says. “I haven’t sat down and just talked with anyone in ages.”

“It has been nice,” I agree.
Too nice.
“But . . . I better get going.” The sun isn’t as bright as it was when I sat down, slowly slipping behind the houses across the river. “Papa will need his dinner made soon.”

“How about I see you again next Friday?” King asks. “If you’re keen, that is.”

“I’m keen.”

“What’s your number?” He reaches for his phone, sliding it before him. “I could message you when—”

“I don’t have a phone.”

He stares. “What?”

“I don’t have a phone,” I repeat. “Too expensive for how often I use it.”

“Really?” He leans back in his seat and throws an elbow over the back.

“Really.”

“What about Facebook? Instagram?”

I shake my head.

“Twitter?” He lifts an eyebrow.

“Nope.”

“Are you serious?” King leans forward again, both elbows resting on the table. “Do you not have anybody who you keep in touch with? Any friends in Cuba you want to keep track of?”

“Not really. I call Mama once a week or so, but that’s it.”

“How?” he asks. “I mean, if you don’t have a phone.”

I point over my shoulder at the corner store. “They sell international phone cards. I buy one when I can afford it and walk down to the public phone at the library.”

King gawks. Clearly I’m some freak of nature in today’s tech-addicted world. Everything I’ve said is the truth though; there isn’t anybody I want to keep in touch with other than Mama.

“How do I contact you then, about next week?”

“You don’t. We just meet again at the same time.”

“And if you can’t make it?” His gaze narrows on me.

He has a point. Lincoln’s a long ride for him just to discover I don’t show. “Give me your number. I can call you from the payphone.”

He looks around and pats down his pockets. “Hold up.” King pushes out of his seat and dashes inside the café. He returns a short time later with one of their loyalty cards, and passes it over. “My number.”