The words were a relief.
“Thank you.” I step up to him and put my arms around his waist, allowing myself the luxury of his heat. I’m chilled by the idea they’ll be watching. And there is a part of me that doesn’t want to leave here. Doesn’t want to leave him.
With his broad shoulders and quiet confidence, I feel safe around him.
I hear my Pop’s warning again.You have the beauty of a wild rose but need to use your thorns to stop your petals from getting stomped on.
He wraps his arms around me and holds me close. He smells of his shower gel, as do I. It gives me comfort to smell the same. Lips brush the top of my head, a gesture that tilts my world a little. “You’re going to be okay, Briar,” he mutters.
“It’s Rose,” I tell him. “Rose Whittaker.” He’s about to know where I live. He cares. He should know whose life he saved.
He places his hands on my biceps. “Rose. It’s pretty. Why Briar?”
“Because my pop, my grandfather, used to call me that. It felt safer giving you that name until I knew you weren’t going to hurt me.”
Saint studies me for a good long while before he speaks again. “If I tell you my name, you must promise to never mention it again. Not out loud. Don’t write it in a journal or text your best friend.”
“Is this because of the motorcycle club you’re part of?”
He nods. “Something like that.”
“I swear.”
He takes my hand and kisses the back of it. We both ignore the ugly scabs around my wrists where I was tied up. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Rose. My name is Ryker.” He rubs his thumb over the back of my hand.
“Ryker,” I say, realizing it comes out on a breath. “I like it.”
Dimples pop in his cheeks as he smiles. “I like that you like it. But for everyone’s safety, let’s let that be the last time we use each other’s real names. You’re Briar. And I’m Saint. Got it?”
“Got it. What’s in the bag?”
“Shit you’re gonna need,” he says cryptically.
My mind drifts to work as Saint drives. If any client is frustrated with a lack of response, I could tell them I had food poisoning or something. It sounds a little pathetic, that I could go missing and no one would care. I’ve always been more of a loner. My hobbies have always been solitary. Painting. Drawing. Reading. Happy in my own company, Pop used to say.
On the way, we stop at a diner, where Saint downs a plate of steak and eggs and I opt for waffles. I’m embarrassed I can’t pay, but Saint reminds me it’s okay. When we leave and a car backfires, I jump. Saint takes my hand until we’re at the truck and he lets go to help me inside.
It’s hard not to think about the way our clasped hands felt as we drive to my place on the southern end of the Upper East Side. It’s right on the edge of Lenox Hill, and Saint does everything he said he would do. We circle the place twice before parking near a side street that leads to the fire escape.
“What is it you do that you can afford a place like this?” he asks as we enter the building.
“I am a graphic artist. And I hustle,” I say as I hit the elevator button. “And as you’re about to see, my apartment is quite possibly the smallest studio in the place.”
“Never understood why someone would want to live in a shoebox like this, even if it is fancy as fuck,” Saint says.
There are two of us plus Saint’s bag in the elevator, and it already feels full, even though the sign says the elevator can take eight. I wonder if the men who took me have been up here. I wonder if I’m breathing their air. I start to freak out as my heart races.
“And what do you mean byhustle?”
I try to distract myself by considering the answer. “I have a lucrative contract as a graphic designer for a large ad agency, but then I do other freelance work in my spare time. Like book covers and indie movie posters. This spot is as close to suburbia as you get in the city. I mean, there are trees on the sidewalk. I can walk to Central Park and Midtown if I want to. I’ve barely scratched the surface of figuring out the neighborhood, but there is already so much I want to explore.” The elevator dings for my floor, but I keep spewing words. “And I like walking. So even though the apartment is only three hundred square feet, it’s my mansion.” I suck in air. I feel like that monologue came out in one long breath and probably an octave higher than normal.
My palms sweat.
Saint’s strong and calloused hand reaches for mine and squeezes, in spite of their dampness. “You’re okay, Briar.”
His words echo through me. “I’m rambling.”
“You are,” he says, encouraging me out into the hallway. “It’s nerves. And it’s okay to have them.”
