Stalking the Dancer || 18+

Part Seven - Big Bear

God fucking damn it. 

This motherfucking woman has crawled into my brain and taken root in the deepest parts. I lose every drop of self-control when I see her, lookin' right back at me with those fucking eyes. They're so open, honest, and raw. Fuck. 

I'm shaking like a teenager and I'm sure she can feel it. She doesn't seem repulsed by my touch, which is a great start. I think I even felt her leaning into my arms before she came to her senses. Since then, she's been leaning against my hold, a laughable attempt at putting space between us. At least she's not trying to scramble off of my lap anymore.

She's a brave woman, that's not a question. I don't know if I'd handle this situation with as much tact if our roles were reversed. I'm not used to women who can hold their own against me, it's probably part of the reason why I can't scrub her out of my head no matter how hard I try. 

And trust me I've tried.

The guys may act as if I give into every goddamn impulse that crosses my dick, but I've spent weeks fighting the urge to watch her, to follow her, to steal her privacy. I'm tired of fighting, though. I'm just so fuckin' tired. So I gave in, physically, at least; I know my therapist would tell me that now I've got to give in emotionally, too. That part always sucks ass.

"I never broke in while you were gone, Doe. I swear on Antoine." That earns me a cute little smirk, I'm sure she thinks I'm an idiot but that's better than what she'll think after I'm done with this conversation. "But I have done some bad things and, before you decide whether to stay, you deserve to know." I stare into her eyes as she chews on what I've said. She quirks an eyebrow at me, "Well, you went to prison so figuring that out wasn't rocket science," I snort before I know what's happening and, just like that, she's bent over giggling at the sound I made. "You snort?" If her laughter wasn't the best thing I've ever heard I'd bend her over the bed and spank her for making fun of me. 

But it is the best thing I've ever heard. Like it's some kind of auditory drug, I'm hooked, a helpless junkie desperate for my next hit. "Only sometimes," I try to hide my smile, I don't want to frighten her out of whatever mood she's ended up in. Her eyes have a mischievous sparkle, as usual, "I like it." Her dimples are on full display along with her sinful little smile. 

She pauses for a moment and I watch her smile fade slowly, "What kind of bad things?" I prepared myself for this, yet it feels like I've never rehearsed my confessions in the mirror. I have. I've imagined this moment over and over, it always ends the same way. Doe listens until she can't take anymore, she leaves me in the dust, and I try not to descend into madness. I take a slow breath, "Some stalking before prison, 'til you I'd given that up, or so I thought. Since gettin' out it's been different, more organized. I make some decent cash from it but that's not what keeps me in it, I like it." I'm trying to keep my jaw from shaking as I talk, so I clamp my jaw shut and wait for her to give me any sign of life other than her wide, saucer eyes blinking at me. 

"What is 'it'?" 

"The guys and I work off-book for a motorcycle club in the county as muscle but occasionally there are some unconventional jobs. The Prez's old lady is a survivor of domestic abuse and he's taken a real passion to helping out others who end up in similar situations." I'm proud of my work, no matter what anyone thinks. Even Dorothy.

"Like, you help women leave dangerous living situations?" She blinks innocently, making the lump in my throat even harder to swallow. I nod, "A lot of that, sure. It's a helluva lot harder for a jackass to abuse a woman when there's another, bigger jackass on her side. Same for abused men, but the worst are the kid cases." I feel her shift on my lap nervously, so I let my hand find her thigh to settle her down.

"And the unconventional jobs?" I can feel her holding her breath.

"Mostly consist of executing hits and interrogating scumbags." Ripping the bandaid off is the only way I know to handle this discussion, so I may as well start off strong.

"Hits." She says it as a statement, not a question, but I answer her anyway. "Simple, professional, in-and-out jobs. Outsourcing some dirty work helps the MC keep the pigs off their trail." Her face is resting in a serious position, her eyebrows creasing just the slightest bit. 

"Interrogating?"

"With my fists."

Her lips flatten into a thin line, "That makes sense." Her words are simple but they hit their target. "What, you expected me to be a murderer?" I say dryly. Her eyebrows fully draw together at that, then I watch her eyes hit the back of her skull as she rolls them at me dramatically. "No, I expected that you talk with your fists. Didn't hesitate to knock the shit out of me, that's for sure." She grumbles and it makes my head fall back in soft laughter.

"I really am sorry about that,"

Those green orbs roll back in her head for the second time, "I'm sure you are."

I can't help but pull her closer at her sass, it's too much for me to handle. She's so tiny, I don't understand how she's got so much fire. "Isn't that a pretty dangerous job?" She's looking down at her hands now, they're twisting in her lap nervously. "Can be. I don't get called out as often anymore so I spend most of my time at the shop." That piques her interest, I can tell by the way her hands freeze and her eyes slowly find their way back to mine. Fuck, she's the prettiest thing I've ever seen. 

Her freckled nose crinkles before she questions me, "What's the shop?" She says it as if it's some sort of torture dungeon, which does sound like something I'd be into. "I'm a mechanic at a garage on Fourteenth Street, we work on a lotta bikes but get some cars in, too. My specialty is vintage Harley repairs, but I take all kinds of jobs. Not enough vintage Harleys in the state to keep the bills paid." That sassy little eyebrow of hers goes up, "You're a mechanic?" I nod my head once, spurring her on. "You're a mechanic-murderer?" 

I try to choke down the chuckle I feel bubbling in my chest before shaking my head at her, "I'm a mechanic slash murderer, I don't murder mechanics. That would be sacrilegious, or something." Now it's her turn to smirk at me. Her head drops forward as it shakes, "I can't believe this is real." I know she can't. I'm the worst thing that could ever overtake her life and I'm actively doing that with every second I keep her instead of taking her back home. 

But her home could be with me.

"How do you know you're not taking hits on innocent people?" Her breathy voice is feeble and shaky, and uneven breaths move her chest. "Gunner, he's the club president, trust 'im with my life. I also get a file on each target before I decide to take the job or not, so that helps." 

We sit there for a few minutes, the silence thickening with each passing moment. Finally, I can't take it anymore, "Are you gonna tell me why you seem so calm about all this, now?" Her lips press together, a nervous habit she seems to be unaware of. Her hair flows around her shoulders when she shakes her head at me, "Okay, I can wait." I can't stand it anymore, so I pull her into my chest until she resigns her head to my shoulder. Her body goes slack on top of me and I bundle her in my arms before scooting up the bed so I can lean against the headboard. She's exhausted from stress, not to mention the emotional trauma I've put her through. I'm surprised it took her this long to crash, but it did and she does. Hard.

Her breathing evens out about ten minutes after I settle us in bed and one of her tiny hands comes up to fist my shirt. We've had maybe half an hour of peace, although I can't reach my phone so I don't know for sure, before the front door slams open downstairs. The sound startles her in her sleep, she twists the fabric in her hand tighter as her face burrows into my chest. 

Ray's enormous body is covering the doorway in a flash as he takes in the scene. "You kill anybody?" His eyes narrow on me, the gruffness in his tone makes it clear he's not happy with any of my recent decisions. I shake my head at him, not wanting to wake the princess. "Antoine's bringing Rome to pick up the bike you stole, we'll talk about this when they get here." He doesn't leave room for argument, stomping back down the stairs. I can hear him slamming cabinets in the kitchen like a madman.

Well, who's throwing a Big Bear tantrum now?