He grips the curve of my neck, pulling my lips to brush along his. “You came for me.”
Feeling the intensity in his grip, my throat curving towards him under the pressure. “You let me care for you,” I whisper. “You need me.”
Pulling me into his lap, his body still tight, he says. “I do need you, baby. But not just now, always. You’re it. You’re my peace. My quiet place.”
“And you’re my life,” I murmur, my voice strangled. His grip relaxes, and I lean my forehead against his, feeling his breath fan down my skin as he exhales his emotions, exhales his tension. “I’m bones, blood, muscles, and movement, but nothing else, nutcase. With you though, I’m loved and loving and aware and awake. And I can be, me. Crazy. A bitch. An angel. Me.” I close my eyes, dipping to kiss his lips, to seal my bleeding honesty in a physical way. “I love you.”
He groans as we roll our mouths and tongues together, every stroke a message of commitment. I can taste blood and salt and sweat, but I don’t care. It’sus,seeking pleasure, accepting each other for all our crazies.
Dragging my lips to his forehead, I press them firmly against him, quick, chaste, before pulling his face into the crook of my neck, cradling him there. Long, powerful arms go around my back, crossing over at my spine, holding me possessively.
“We’ll get through ittogether,” I say with a reminiscing sound, a promise echoed from when we were young and did not know what life or love was all about.
What the world would throw at us.
How his madness would shake me to life.
How my distraction would bring him peace.
Burying his face further into my embrace, he whispers, “Okay, baby.”
THE END
Shoshanna
Twelve months later
I raceinto the workshop under a cloud of nervousness, knowing he’ll be devastated if he misses Clay’s ceremony. Dodging old parts of machines, I call out to him through the ruckus. No one even turns. I step over an old engine and weave my way through the people. They must be having another ‘play, pimp, or pay’ day because the entire shop is crawling with people and the noise is wild and chaotic. Fuel by Metallica is blasting from the speakers. Poor, organised Juliette will be pulling her hair out right now, trying to maintain a sense of professionalism amid Bronson’s playful anarchy.
Heading straight for his station in the back corner, where dozens of teenage boys gather, shoulder to shoulder, to get a front-row view of the elegant or beastly machine my nutcase is building, I can’t help but smile.
When I get to the front of the crowd, I lean on one hip and fold my arms over my breasts. Raising an eyebrow, I take him all in. He’s squatting by a black Harley Davidson, playing with something at the rear that has all the teenage boys peering over in awe - they are far more focused on him than on me in my tight black dress.
Which is a refreshing change.
His shirt is tucked into the back of his jeans, swinging as he works. Following the movement of his sweaty tattooed bicep as it flexes, pulling on something - a bolt, a chain, I don’t know - trying to get it to move or wedge, I know nothing about bikes, I hum my enjoy of the view. He’s a beautiful work of art, my Bronson Butcher. Dark. Fun. A killer and a clown. Crixus notices me immediately, leaving his side and barrelling over. Jumping in the air, springing off his back paws, he’s a stocky dog-shaped jack-in-the-box.
I squat down, letting him lather me in soggy kisses. “Your daddy needs an alarm clock,” I say to him. Standing, I project my voice out to Bronson. “Nutcase!”
His head pops up, his eyes narrowing on me from over the leather seat. Jumping to his feet, he opens his arms. “Baby!”
The crowd turns to stare at me, but I grin straight ahead. “Are you forgetting something?”
His eyes roll over my body, obvious and meaningful, caressing me with each slight narrow and flare. Then his face drops as he seemingly remembers why I’m wearing this pretty black dress. “Oh, fuck!”
I nod, saying, “Yeah.” I laugh as he leaps over the bike, the crowd parting for him instantly. Crixus scurries after him, near hitting his heels.
“Don’t touch my bike, Callum.” Bronson laughs, turning to point two fingers at his eyes, then pointing them at Callum. “I’m watching you.” He peers down at Crixus. “Crixus boy, you stay here, buddy.”
Callum grins, taking a little step back from the Harley. “Crixus, come here, boy,” he calls. Crixus rushes over to Callum. Grabbing his collar, Callum grips it as our little staffy attempts to follow us. “Can I fix the left wheel alignment for you?”
“Not if you want to live,” Bronson says as he darts into the office, grabs his wallet, and then reappears. Spinning on my black wrap-around heels, heading towards the sleek black van out front, I’m suddenly halted by a big warm palm around my throat and hot lips pressing to mine. The boys hoot and wolf whistle, and I close my eyes, breathing him in.
I kiss him. Trace his tongue with mine. Lean my body against his - the love between us is palpable.
He smells like oil and sweat.
And if freedom had a scent, it would be that of Bronson Butcher when he is working on bikes. When he has grease on his tattooed arms and chest instead of blood, when he is shirtless and wild, when he has dirt under his fingernails.