Fucking A, I don’t know how I’m going to survive this shit.

***

Her hair smells like cinnamon and hot apples. I remember the smell from the first time I met her. Cinnamon, and hot apples; the smell that makes me hungry for warm pie in one moment, and then makes me hungry for her in the next.

“Sy?”

“Yeah, baby,” I reply, pushing her hair off her neck to lean in and kiss the soft skin.

“Did you just smell my hair?” she asks, her voice sounding sluggish from sleep. After I made her come with my fingers, her body was spent, so I carried her to her room and told her to rest. I know I’m entering dangerous territory being in her bed. Even having her close when I’m on the edge is not good news, but I know this is what she needs.

“I love the smell of it,” I tell her, not caring if I sound like a fucker for it. “I’m liking your hair getting longer, too,” I admit. I was fucking pissed when she cut it off. I loved her hair when I first met her.

“What is it with you and my hair?”

“I think you’re beautiful any way you wear it, but do you remember that night you walked into my shop? You strode in wearing that short fucking dress, and those fuck-me heels. Any guy in a one-mile radius would have had a hard on for you. Hell, you had me hard, even with all of that attitude you were throwin’ around.” I laugh when she pinches me. “But it was your long hair shining under those fluorescent lights that had me.” I wrap my finger around the now shorter strands.

“I’m growing it again,” she whispers, turning to face me.

“Don’t do it for me. Have it however you want it. Like I said, you’re beautiful no matter what. I just miss having something to hold on to,” I joke as I remember when I pulled it at her apartment.

“I needed to feel like I wasn’t that person anymore, that scared woman who lost herself in that old barn.” She looks at me, her eyes showing the truth to her statement. “It was my way of controlling it. It sounds lame and maybe it is, but cutting it off was therapy for me.”

“I get that,” I murmur, running a finger along her collarbone.

“You do?” she asks, seeming shocked for a moment before coming up on her elbow.

“Yeah, why do you think my body is covered with these?” I run my hand up my inked arm.

“You’re hiding.” It’s barely a question, more of a statement.

“I’ve always been hiding, Holly.” I admit the cold truth. I’ve been alone for a long time, unsure if I would ever want to let anyone in. It didn’t even occur to me I’ve spent all this time trying to get her to let me in that I don’t know how to do it myself. I know I need to tell her; tell her about Keira, and about the past which has shaped me into the man I am now, but how do you tell something like that to the woman you’re falling for? Allowing a person to see the hurt I wear on my skin, or what lives in my heart, is something I don’t ever give freely. Miraculously, she has been able to bring something out in me I buried a long time ago. Underneath all the anger and pain that follows me around, I feel something I haven’t felt in such a long time: peace.

“You don’t have to hide with me, Sy,” she says and I believe her. I really do. I just don’t know how to tell her.

“I like being in your bed. I should be in it more often,” I tell her as I kiss her softly.

“You should stay the night,” she says, and even if she hadn’t suggested it, I wouldn’t have left. Not with the smell of her still on my fingers.

“Your brother's not planning to come in tonight, is he?” I ask, hoping she says no. Even if he doesn't live here, he has a key and calls in frequently. I've managed to avoid him, but knowing our luck, he turns up the night I stay.

“No, he's staying at my parents’ house tonight. He and Dad have an early fishing trip. Don't worry. We're safe,” she jokes. “My poor mom will be up sending them off with a packed lunch,” she laughs, picturing it.

“Your mom and dad seem close,” I say, watching her smile.

“They are,” she nods. She doesn't need to tell me she likes that a lot. “If I ever get married, I hope after thirty years, I’m still happy like them,” she says. “What about you? Are your parents still married?” she asks me. Jesus, tonight is the night for home truths.

“My dad died three years ago and my mom walked out on us when I was ten,” I tell her. She sits up, shocked at my story.

“Oh, God, Sy, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” She looks uncomfortable, but there’s no need for it.

“Don’t be. My father was a drunk all my life. He was a member of Knights Rebels MC and thought he was a god.” I shake my head, remembering what sort of man he was.

“Wow, so your dad was in the club when Red was president?” she asks.

“Yeah, I grew up with Nix and Beau. I was a few years behind them so I didn’t go to school with them, but at club get-togethers and family shit, we would hang out,” I reply, thinking back to the shit the boys used to get up to.

“Is that how you joined the club?”

“Fuck no. I left the moment I could. Didn’t want anything to do with my old man or the club. He didn’t care when I left. We never had that relationship and I wasn’t interested in trying. I only came back when he was dying. The club had pulled their shit together by then. Nix was Prez, and he took me in. Didn’t think I wanted in, but after spending the last few months with my dad, seeing how the club looked out for him in the final days, it just kinda happened.” I leave out the part that I really had nothing to go back to and the thought of joining a family when I had just lost mine was more than I could hope for.