Chapter Two

Viper

Ten Years Ago

I don't give rides to drunk women, so this is new.

Am I supposed to help her inside? Am I supposed to text her husband to let him know I'm not some sack of shit? Am I supposed to make sure she doesn't choke on her vomit? What's the protocol here?

Part of me considers calling Jane down at the bar to see what would be best, but human nature takes over as the woman stumbles off my bike and nearly face plants in the parking lot.

Clearly, she needs help.

"Okay, okay." I lift her from the ground, cradling her in my arms as I walk toward the row of rooms ahead of me. "What room?"

She glances up at me, defiance in her glare. " What? Put me down. I can walk."

" What room?" I ask again, this time with a deeper tone.

Her dark blue eyes roll to the side, but she answers. "Eighteen."

I navigate toward the room closest to the end with the numbers one and eight nailed to the door. I'm not sure who booked this place, but it's not the best area of the Springs. It's where a lot of addicts come to sleep for the night because the owner offers super low rates.

She slides the key into the lock, and I push the door open, setting her onto the green shag carpet. There's a moldy smell in the room that knocks me half on my ass, like the place hasn't been properly cleaned in eons.

"You like this place?" I don't want to insult her if this is all she can afford, but fuck.

"Ugh, no." She sits on the edge of the bed. "It was a gift from Craig. He booked this place for me as a getaway. I think he felt bad that he had so much to do out of town lately. It was a nice gesture, so I didn't want him to feel bad, and it was just the one night."

I glance around the room, studying the peeling wallpaper and the needle that's still laying behind the mattress. On the opposite side of the space, it doesn't get much better. There's a thin layer of filth on top of the dresser and the towels hanging in the bathroom are stained with a weird brown color. "He read the reviews?"

She shakes her head and pulls a bottle of water from her suitcase. "Who knows? He's flying back in the morning."

"What's he do?" I don't know why I'm asking questions. I never ask anyone anything, but for some reason, I need to know more about the asshole that would send their wife to stay in a place like this.

"His dad owns this law firm in Jackson Hole, but they have offices in New York and LA. So, he spends a lot of time traveling back and forth, attending to everyone."

I nod and study the woman in front of me. Long blonde hair, freckles on her cheeks, perfect little curves. "That why you're out drinkin' tonight? Lonely?"

She laughs. "No. Well, sort of. Not really. I… my mom passed away last week. I don't know… she was a huge drinker. I had one to remember her by and then I just… kept going."

My brows narrow. " What? Your mom passed away last week?"

"Yeah, why?"

"You're here alone. I…" I bite back all the shit I want to say about her so-called ‘husband.' "You shouldn't be alone right now. Shit! That's a lot. I'm so sorry. You okay?"

She nods. "I think so. My mom and I fought all the time. Craig thinks I'm just idealizing her now that she's gone."

I shouldn't sit on the edge of the bed and ask her to spill her heart out to me, but I also shouldn't leave a human being in pain. So, I sit on the corner of the second bed and stare back at her. "Our lives sound similar."

"How so?" She folds her legs onto the bed and tucks the front of the black dress she's wearing around them.

"My mother was an addict. Whiskey, meth, heroine, you name it. She loved me, I know she did, but she couldn't hold it together for more than a month at a time. She passed when I was overseas. I didn't come home for the service. I was so fuckin' mad at the time."

She peels at the label on her water bottle. "I'm sorry. That's awful. Was she always that way?"

"Yeah, since the day I was born. That was back before there was real help for shit like that, so I dressed myself for school, made breakfast, and went on my way. What about you?"

"Drunk as a fish every day. I can't remember a Christmas when she wasn't bombed or hungover. But… she was my mom and," tears well in her eyes, "I miss her. I know I shouldn't, but I do. I didn't think I would, but it's the little stuff. Like the way she'd call me after a night of drinking to talk about the guys at the bar. I hated it at the time, but that was her life, ya know? She destroyed so many pieces of me, but she still made me."

I don't know the protocol here either. She's telling me all of this and she's hurting so badly. I have to do something. So, I act human. I stand and meet her on the edge of her bed and offer her a hug.

She leans against my shoulder. "Maybe Craig is right. I'm probably idealizing her. He thinks I'm being way too dramatic. I probably am."

I drag in the scent of wildflowers in her hair and brush my thumb against her arm in comfort. Of course, fucking Craig would say something stupid like that. "You'll work through phases. Some days you'll hate her. Others, you'll idealize everything she's done. In the end, you'll realize she was human and so are you."

The woman glances toward me. "Wow. Insightful. I wouldn't have expected that from a big, old, leather wearing biker."

I bite back a grin. "I try. Losing a parent is a weird ass thing. As much as you can't fuckin' stand what they did to you, or how they raised you, it's like you've lost the anchor."

"Yes!" Her eyes light as she turns toward me. "That's how I feel! Why? Why do I feel that way? She was never there for me. It's not like I counted on her to show up."

My heart warms. Why is it so fucking nice to feel like I've understood her? Like what I'm saying actually fucking matters? So many women talk, but don't listen to a damn word you say. This woman is different. She talks and she listens. I clear my throat. "She was your first relationship. Good or bad, she was your point of reference for life. It's engrained. You're grieving that. You should grieve that."

She stares at me, tears falling fast.

I grip her tighter, desperate to dry them all away, but I don't.

"You'll get there. Be patient with yourself."

With a finger on her cheek, she wipes away the wetness in her eyes. "This is so weird."

"What is?"

"That I'm spilling my guts to someone I just met like we've been friends forever. I don't usually open up to anyone."

"Me either." I clear my throat and brush my hand against her soft arm.

"What branch of the military were you in?"

"Navy. I was discharged because of an injury." I point to my left leg. "Fucked this thing up. Gives me some serious pain every now and then." I haven't spoken about my service since I got back. Even starting this conversation now is giving me pause.

She looks up at me with parted lips, her eyes filled with empathy. "How'd it happen?"

"We had a group of six of us that were doing recon in the Persian Gulf when we were fired on by some hostiles. Since our vessel wasn't built for heavy combat, all we could do was run. Their shots cut through us like swiss cheese. Two men in my group died, but I survived. Not sure how, but I'm still here."

"You don't look happy about it."

"I'm not." I hold her closer. I'm not sure why, but telling the story with her in my arms makes it easier. "Those men had families to come home to. I didn't. If anyone should've lost their life, it should've been me."

"Maybe you're here for a reason." She looks down at her hands before glancing up again. " I'm glad you're here."

Our eyes meet and we stay like that for a long moment. Too long a moment . So long a moment that my brain twists and turns, diving into caverns and hollows it shouldn't be going into.

For a brief second, I imagine my arms around her, then falling back on the bed. I'd hold her close, kissing her soft lips. After that initial wave settled, we check out of this flea bag hotel, and I'd take her home. I'd be by her side as she cried on my shoulder. I imagine being the anchor she's needing.

She glances toward the ground and back up again before standing, leaving a cold emptiness beside me that I'm desperate to have back.

"It's getting late, and I should hit the hay." Her arm brushes over the other and she opens the thin plywood door, letting a few buzzing mosquitos in. "Thank you… for everything. I… I'm glad you brought me home, and we got a chance to talk."

Again, I'm not sure of what to do or say.

Do I hug her goodbye? Do I ask for her number? Do I tell her how good it felt to say real things, or do I just walk out and never see her again?

I drag in a deep breath and walk toward the door. I don't want to leave her here. I don't want to know she's laying her head down at this piece of shit hotel. I don't want to think about her crying alone and worry that she's not safe.

She stares at me and tips up onto her toes, making the decision for both of us. A hug. A hug is what I get. I let it linger, breathing her in. Wildflowers, whiskey, and the scent from the terrible room.

The rest plays out like a silent movie where it feels like scenes are missing. We go from her perfect soul holding my embrace, to a staggered breath as she lets go, to a light smile with no direct eye contact as she escorts me out her door.

As the door closes behind me, I stand in the echoing silence of the cool summer night. I've never been one to find attachment in people. I have myself, and that's all I can handle. A hug goodbye has always been enough.

Tonight, though, it's not… and I can't do a fucking thing about it.