He glances at Nixon briefly. “Woman or trouble?”
Annoyance prickles through my bloodstream, not particularly wanting to rehash my personal life with anyone, let alone a man who seems to be enjoying his newfound position of power.
Now, it’s my turn to narrow my gaze at him. “If you must know, amico, I left because the woman I love has another man’s ring on her finger, and I feared staying in New York would result in an extensive jail sentence after I killed the man with my bare hands. Due to that, and a not-so-pleasant conversation with a member of my family, I left immediately. I landed here, on the opposite side of the country, where my demons can be kept at bay. I did not ask to be introduced to you, nor have I asked to become a member of your club. Yet, here I am being interrogated as though I am up for a job position with the Secret Service. Nixon seems to think I’d fit right in with your vigilante group, and I harbor a deep passion for giving back to those who are in need, so I guess the choice is yours.”
As I finish, realizing that I said more than I intended, the words flowing like a waterfall from mymouth, the waitress returns with our drinks and sets them in front of us, respectively. Automatically, my hand wraps around the cool glass and I pull it closer, never taking my eyes off of Cain.
We continue to stare at each other, and I can feel his anger level rising.
He doesn’t like the way I am not backing down—not in fear of his demeanor or power. I can only assume that within moments, his men fall in line, recognizing his authority.
But not me.
I did not ask for this, and while I can recognize the benefits that being involved in a motorcycle club may have on my mental and social health, I can also stand and walk away from this table without any semblance of regret.
“You do understand what it means to be a part of a hierarchy, do you not?” Cain asks with a smirk before pulling his glass to his lips. He takes a swig then places it back onto the table. “The club answers to me. That going to be a problem, pretty boy?”
“Only if you do not cease calling me pretty boy.” Do I like having to act as though this man is my superior?
Absolutely not.
Will I play nice so I can rebuild my life in this small city?
Evidently.
Cain takes another swig of his drink, watching meclosely as he does. After a few more moments, I see the edges of his eyes soften slightly.
“So, what did you do back in New York? You said you have a passion for giving back to the less fortunate.”
This is the moment I’ve been wanting to avoid since settling here weeks ago. The interest in setting up another clinic and helping the people of Ridgewood is non-existent—something I know in my heart I will not pursue.
Still, I could tell him about my medical background. Someone with my knowledge and skill set could be highly respected in an MC.
Yet every piece of me is internally screaming tolie.
To keep this to myself.
So that’s exactly what I do.
“My family is very wealthy. I had the privilege of doing some extended traveling after college, and when I returned to the city I pursued a relationship with a woman who I now understand did not share the same level of feelings.”
He nods once, dipping his head in a way that says he understands. “And now you’re here.”
For the first time since we sat, I see emotion flicker through his eyes. It adds depth to the hue of his irises, giving them more dimension, as though my words have brought him some sort of peace, if only the smallest of slivers.
I lean back in my chair, studying his features and wondering what his story is. I won’t ask him, though, not only out of respect but from compassion ofknowing that some things are better left kept locked within the depths of your heart.
Should he decide one day to speak about his life, then I will listen.
I do not believe I will be best of friends with this man, but he is already becoming someone I feel I will respect, and that is more than a lot of people earn from me in such a short amount of time.
From my side, Nixon tosses back what’s left of his drink. I can feel his gaze bounce between his president and me, listening to the words we’re exchanging and likely wondering if this door is swinging wide open or slamming shut.
Extending my arm, I grip the back of his shoulder in a friendly gesture before nodding as I look at the man, who will ultimately decide if I get a seat at their table. “Sì, and now I’m here.”
“If you want a spot with the Sinners, then you must respect a key aspect that we live by.”
“And what is that, amico mio?”
