I just hoped I didn’t have to brave the Trench to find him.
I moved around the Trench, watching the revelers, taking in their attire, and thinking about how I wore different clothes back then. I was in jeans, boots, a sweater, and a leather jacket but my whole ensemble didn’t cost me fifty bucks because I’d scored kickass threads from some vintage shop or bought my tee at a concert or from a roaming vendor at a rally.
My ensemble cost over a thousand dollars (not including jewelry), and I might be among bikers, but they’d know it.
So I kept to myself, scanning faces, peering into the outskirts of the Trench, weaving around bodies and bonfires and tents and bikes.
I was nervous, most definitely. But I’d had two and a half weeks of practicing what I was going to say. Not only that, but also practicing how I was going to get Logan to listen to me.
I had the words down pat.
So I had that part covered.
What wasn’t covered was the fact that I had no idea what his reaction would be (or what my reaction would be to his reaction, though, I’d run a few of those around in my head as well, about seven thousand of them).
I just hoped that when it was done, when I’d explained, some of the scars would heal. At least enough that I could move on. Know he understood and finally—way too late but not never—close the book on that chapter of my life, give Logan that closure, and let us both go forward without that wound damaging our souls.
On a mission, I kept looking and did it for hours. Sometimes finding a safe spot to stop and watch just in case being on the move was why I was missing him. I even hung close to Wild Bill’s kitchen, thinking Logan might come to get a brat or a paper basket of late-night, drunken-eating gravy fries (Wild Bill’s specialty).
I saw Wild Bill. He was now old as dirt and looked it, but even though it was past midnight, he was serving up fries to bikers and their babes, doing it smiling.
Finally, I realized it was time to give up. At least for that night. I was getting tired, things were getting rowdier (the Trench) or quieter (the outskirts), so people were settling in for the night one way or another, and if Logan was there, he’d be doing the same.
Therefore I needed to pack it in, go home, get some rest, and come back the next night.
I didn’t think of finding Logan with a woman (which could be possible).
From the conversation I overheard at Chipotle, it seemed he was getting divorced or was finalizing but he could have moved on (though whatever ended that relationship was not him straying—he’d never do that, not in a million years, I knew that for certain).
But I’d deal with that if it happened and when I told myself I’d deal, I also told myself that it might even be good. He’d have someone and I wanted him to be happy.
And if he had someone, it might free me to find someone. Knowing Logan was with someone (and hopefully happy this time, as a possible divorce stated he hadn’t been the last time—but I tried not to think about that) might release me from his snare and finally allow me to move on.
I thought this even knowing there would be consequences from seeing him with another woman.
But I’d deal with them if they happened too.
What I hoped was that in the next two days, I’d actually find him.
If I didn’t, I’d have to go to Chaos. I’d have to go to Ride, the store or the garage, and look for him, ask after him.
Or, God I hoped not, the Compound.
But if that happened, it would.
And that, too, I’d deal with when it did.
Night one was a bust but I wouldn’t give up.
I’d come back for night two.
This thought made me sigh as I made my way through the bikes, trucks, and other vehicles parked outside the camp areas. Apparently, going to Wild Bill’s was like riding a bike since I remembered to make note of landmarks that would lead me back to my SUV in that sea of vehicles.
Back then, Logan had taught me to have that care.
Therefore, twenty years later, I had that care and walked right to my car.
I beeped the locks and had a hand to the handle when I heard, “Lookin’ for me?”
When that deep, coarse voice came at me through the dark, my body became paralyzed, my eyes glued to my hand on the handle.
Then it kept coming at me.
“Bitch, followed you the last forty-five minutes. Reb got in touch. Told me you hit Scruff’s.” On the next, the voice was nearer. “You’re lookin’ for me. So tell me what the fuck you want so you can quit lookin’ and I can quit lookin’ at you.”
Slowly, I turned, my head going back automatically because I felt him close and I knew what close to Logan meant.
I was five-seven.
He was six-one.
He towered over me, or at least that’s what it always felt like because he wasn’t only tall, he was also a big guy with a big presence.
And right then, it felt like that, especially since his big presence was an angry one.
His face was in shadows, I could barely see it.
But I could feel him.
And I could smell him.
God, I could smell him.
He didn’t wear cologne or aftershave. His scent was all his. And I remembered lying in our bed holding his pillow to me, my face shoved into the sheets, taking him in after I’d made him walk away.
His scent hadn’t changed. Not even a nuance.
Smelling it without warning felt like walking unsuspecting into the street and having a truck slam into you. And that feeling was so strong it was a wonder my body didn’t go careening through the trucks and bikes, slamming into them, shattering every bone.
He moved forward so he was in my space, the smell strengthened and my body tightened to guard against it.
“Woman, after all this time, whatever shit you gotta hand me, fuckin’ do it,” he ordered irately. “You got two seconds to spit it the fuck out. You don’t, you won’t get another chance, and you know I’ll make it that way. So this is your only shot. Take it or get in your fuckin’ car and get your ass outta my world.”