Hell's Angel: Devil's Backbone (BK 2)

Rad Dudes with Bad Tudes

Alison's POV
(bellamysgirl)

I sighed, looking at Frank across the small table between us. He was watching the street quite intensely. "And here you were saying I needed to relax," I commented, semi-sarcastically. I took a sip of my coffee and his eyes shifted to mine. I raised my eyebrows expectantly. "Because you do. I'm the escaped convict, remember?" he replied, calmly. "It's my job to be keeping an eye on things."

I titled my head in an expression. "I can do more than just sit here and look pretty."

"Let's not do that," he suggested, turning his head more toward me.

I gave him a look. "But you did it anyway."

"Okay." He sighed, giving an almost flippant nod, looking away.

"Why do you care who does the heavy lifting?" I asked, genuinely curious. "I own a gun, and I know how to use it. It's not like I'm defenseless."

"Because I love you and I want to protect you. This is my mess—I'm not letting you get hurt trying to clean it up, okay?" he replied, looking back at me. The look in his eyes was intense, focused. I knew he meant what he said. It didn't stop me from wanting to help more, but it was enough to shut me up. It was quiet between us for the longest time. It was back to watching the street and pretending not to notice what I did.

I sighed and looked down at the half empty basket of fries a few inches from my coffee. When we arrived, I said I wasn't hungry. But Frank ordered for me anyway and when the food got here I couldn't stop myself. Stress-eating is starting to become my super power. That, and ignoring the obvious. I should get a medal. My stomach seemed to turn at the idea of eating now, so I shifted my eyes to my mug.

It was a solid ten minutes of quiet. I was beginning to think he was ignoring me. Then Frank suddenly asked, "Who was the last guy that kept walking?"

I glanced up from my coffee, pausing. I knew I should've said that at the Café. Nice job, Alison. Incriminate yourself even further. Instead of not seeing me at all, now his eyes were burning a hole through me. I swallowed. "Uh...my ex."

"Who was he?" he asked, neutrally. He took a drink from his coffee and I took that second to gather my thoughts. He probably already knew that I was the one that killed him. What could be the harm in telling him my war story? I mean, I've heard all of his. Well, for one, he could cease to like you anymore because you're a murderer. Then again killing people is what he does. Would it really bother him that much? Probably not.

I exhaled, tightening my fingers around the ceramic mug in front of me. "James Wesley—he worked for Wilson Fisk."

His eyes were instantly on me, a mixture of surprise and seriousness spread thin across his features. I rounded my eyes in an expression and chuckled nervously, "I know, it was bad. What can I say? I was nineteen, fresh outta high school...he was older, and charming, and had lots of money. I fell right into that trap. I only found out it was a trap when it was too late." I shrugged a little.

"Was he abusive?" he asked, his tone almost curious. He looked to be bracing himself for my answer—focused eyes, tense posture, soft features. I nodded slowly and his eyes shifted down as he sighed through his nose, readjusting his position. He looked up and out at the street for a moment. Then he turned back to me. His eyes seemed to be having a hard time staying in one place—especially when that one place was me.

"What happened?"

"Uh, well..." I inhaled, exhaled. "I got pregnant when we were dating and I made the mistake of telling him about it. He'd only been mentally abusive until then. He wrote me a check and told me to 'take care of it'. But I said no...and he tried to kill me. I ran and I thought I lost him—until he resurfaced last year. He claimed to be the good guy now but...I didn't believe him. I mean, why would I, after what he did? One night, he kidnapped me and took me to some warehouse. Said it was to protect me. I didn't believe that either."