Longest Night (New Adult Biker Gang Romance) (Night Horses MC Book 1) (2 page)

He nodded and headed into the truck stop. We turned towards the diner, and sat in a booth right by the counter.

The light seemed harsh after the murky outside.

It didn’t flatter him.

He’d pulled up his hood, but I could still see the ugly bruise and the nasty scar. Without those, he would have been jaw-droppingly handsome. With them, he was captivating. Mysterious. Bad news.

He pushed a menu at me from the table.

“My treat.”

I shook my head. “I can pay.”

“Yeah, but I’m telling you you don’t have to. Order what you want or I’ll just get three of the most expensive platters they have.”

“A waffle,” I said. “I could murder a waffle. And eggs. Maybe some sausage.”

We ended up getting two of the biggest platters they had anyways.

“It’ll be a while,” the waitress said. “Chef’s asleep. I’ll go yell at him.”

We shrugged.

“Nowhere better to be right now, ma’am,” the guy said. I still didn’t know his name.

“How’d you get those?” I asked, nodding at him after the woman left, yawning.

“Don’t pull any punches, do you?” he asked.

“Well, I mean, I could pretend that they weren’t there. That would be the polite thing to do, right? But fuck it, it’s three AM on what was supposed to be my goddamn prom night.”

He leaned up and gently pressed a finger into the fresh bruise without wincing.

“This one? You should see the other guy,” he said. “Friendly fight between buddies. Took a few punches, threw a few punches, pounded our chests.”

His smile left his face as he absently stroked the scar.

“This one… I hope you never meet the other guy. Or anyone like him. I didn’t come off so good in that fight.”

“So, both fighting scars?” I asked. “Not, like, car wrecks?”

He shook his head and held out a wrist, pulling up the leather to show off a faded burn on his arm.

“This one’s from an engine,” he said. “Idiot new guy pushed me when I was working. Thought he was being funny. That count?”

I asked him what he was working on, and his eyes lit up as he went into an explanation of the finicky problem with a motorcycle’s internal workings.

“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” he finally asked.

“Nah, you lost me back there,” I said.

He gave me a half-smile.

“Sorry to ramble at you,” he said.

“I liked seeing you so excited,” I said. “I mean, I had no idea what you meant, but you really meant it, you know?”

“I think so,” he said, dubiously. “It’s been a while since I’ve had to translate teenage girl into human.”

I rolled my eyes.

“How old are you, anyways? What’s your name?”

“What’s yours?” he challenged, as a man wandered over to the griddle behind us, rubbing his eyes and tying on an apron.

“You first!” I said.

“Merle,” he said. “I’m twenty-three.”

“Cool. Like the dude from the Walking Dead?” I asked.

It was his turn to roll his eyes at me.

“Like Merle Watson. You know, Doc Watson’s kid? The one who died?”

“Never heard of him,” I admitted. “Who’s Doc Watson?”

Without a word, Merle stood up and walked over to the jukebox. He fed quarters in with energy and precision, never fumbling like I would have.

By the time he sat back down, the strains of banjo and guitar were drifting through the room.

“I don’t wanna hear anything like ‘I don’t like country music,’” he said. “This is bluegrass, and it’s an education.”

It wasn't as bad as I feared. Not really my style, but it was okay.

The conversation was surprisingly easy.

I really enjoyed watching how excited he got when he talked about motorcycles, and after the night I'd had with Nate, talking to someone who seems to give a shit about what I have to say was refreshing.

When the sleepy man finally brought us our platters of food, I tore into my eggs.

"Didn't have a good dinner?" he asked.

"Not exactly," I said.

Merle looked a little uncomfortable.

"How pissed do I need to be at this guy?" he asked. "Like, was he a garden-variety tool bag who just tried to swing his dick around and you got fed up with each other, or did he try prom night date rape like a Class A tool bag?"

I eyed him.

"Hey, if you're adult and blunt enough to ask about my face, you're old enough to be asked. Sauce for the gander is totally good enough for the goose, or whatever."

"No," I said, "he didn't try to, um, he wasn't a Class A tool bag. Just a garden-variety kind. "

I thought about his friends, the guys he took me to show off… to? with? and I shivered a little.

"Pretty sure his buddies were Class A tool bags with cherries on top, but I didn't stick around to find out, and I wouldn't drink anything they gave me, and when we stopped here I refused to get back in the car. I had tried to get Nate to drop me off at home hours ago and he wouldn’t.”

"Probably a good call," he said. "Teenage boys in herds are generally bad news. I should know."

"I don't think these were teenagers."

"Then why the fuck were you hanging out with them on prom night?"

"Nate said there was a cooler party and he wanted to go by on the way to the dance. I think he was trying to impress me by showing off that he had tough friends, or impress the dudes by showing off that he had me as a date, or something. I don’t even know any more. Driving around in circles with strangers like those guys isn’t my idea of fun.”

"So you never even ended up getting to the damn dance?"

I shook my head, and, to my shame, I started to cry.

“Hey, now,” the strange, bruised, scarred man said, gently.

He reached out across the table and picked up my hand as though it were were a treasure made of the thinnest glass. His weathered thumb passed across my knuckles in a gentle declaration of affection.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just, I didn’t even want to go with him, and I was really looking forward to prom anyways, you know? It’s stupid, it’s so stupid, but I wanted just one night to be right and normal and fun. I’m being ridiculous.”

“No,” he said, simply. “You’re being disappointed. You wanted something, and some jackass took it from you for no good reason. It’s like he stole your candy and threw it in the dirt. Didn’t even eat it himself. Wastes perfectly good candy. Who the fuck does something like that?”

I hadn’t thought about it like that.

“Doesn’t really matter what it was. It wouldn’t have cost him anything to drop you off at the dance, or, hell, not invited you in the first place if he didn’t really want to go.”

Merle made a lot of sense.

“He probably knew your momma made you call him back and you didn’t really want to go, and was mad, and macho, and trying to show that he didn’t care.”

I’d told him the whole story over grits.

“He was selfish, and you took the time and effort and wasted all that money on a nice dress. To do what? Cry in a truck stop with some asshole like me?“

I shook my head.

“I don’t think you’re an asshole,” I said.

My hand was still in his.

“Thanks,” he said.

“I just… I just wanted to dance in my fucking prom dress,” I said.

The light glinted off Merle’s hair when he laughed. In that moment, I saw him without the bruising, without the scars.

I wanted this to be like a movie. I wanted that shining movie moment, where the scruffy guy gets up and asks the sad girl to dance and they stand there in the truck stop diner in the wee hours of the morning.

I knew better, but I wanted that.

Turns out, sometimes, you get the movie moment.

Merle dropped my hand and stood up. He pushed back a table, clearing a little space in the narrow room, and held his hand out to me.

“Hey, um, so,” he said, pitching his voice at an awkward, teenage-boy level. “You wanna, um, dance? I guess?”

I laughed out loud and stood up.

“Maybe,” I said.

He breathed on his hands and grinned wickedly at me.

“Nice and sweaty,” he said. “Sorry, not clammy. Too short-notice for the real high-school dance experience. I could go stick them in the ice for a minute if you like.”

“You are so gross,” I said, almost cheerfully.

We fumbled, trying to figure out where our hands were going, what kind of dance we were doing. I stood up expecting to bop around a little to Doc Watson, but Merle pulled me in against him, gently.

“I don’t know how to dance,” he said, and his breath was hot and close against my hair.

I shivered.

Feeling his voice rumble through his chest was amazing.

We had that movie moment then. Just the two of us in the diner, in the moment. The waitress and the clock had both disappeared again, no one else seems to exist in that bright room in that dark night.

I laid my cheek against his broad chest and felt the zipper of his leather jacket against the skin of my face, cool and remote. The leather itself warmed quickly and smelled heady rich and lush and amazing.

This was way better than a scrawny teenager in a rented suit for my prom night slow dance.

A rented suit was boring. That jacket had character, everything about Merle had character and the story behind it - and he definitely wasn’t scrawny. Even through the leather jacket his body felt hard and lean and strong.

I just wish I had a story .

I have never felt more boring than in that moment and I sorted hated myself for how ridiculous I was and sort of loved Merle for how kindly he went about give me the prom night I wasn't really going to get.

God, was there any worse sin than being
boring
? Was there anything I could do to be less attractive to a guy like Merle than to cry about prom night like some stupid spoiled kid?

I knew I wanted him to like me, but I didn't know how to make that happen

"Thank you," I finally whispered, pulling away from him.

I was kicking myself.

I had my movie moment and I blew it thinking about myself

If I just relaxed I could've had a real little moment of romance, why did I have to be such an idiot?

Merle straightened and I regretted pulling away from him (but also thrilled!) at the flash of disappointment on his face. I keenly felt the lack, the loss of his body against mine, the smell of him fading already.