Patience: Biker Romance (The Davis Chapter Book 1) Read Online Free Page B

it, but reading that note was like placing the first piece of a large, confusing puzzle. The first question that popped into my mind was whether the appointment had come and gone, already. If it had, it was useless to me. If not, what would I find there? Who would I find there?

    A car pulled into the small parking lot, and I felt the strong need to get back inside. I felt like I was being watched, and I started listening for the motorcycle, again. I slammed the trunk lid down, wadded up the bag of trash, and headed for my door. Once inside, I turned the locks. I had to lean into the door to get the deadbolt to close, but I managed.

    Whatever it took to start a new life, I would do it. If Patience really did live like this, something had to be done. I wasn’t Patience, and I wasn’t going to live in some shit apartment. If she was a stripper, I was quitting and going to night school. Whatever reason she carried handguns in her car, I would leave it behind. As far as I was concerned, Patience was no more. The final nail in her coffin would be the moment I found out my real name. Somebody at the Watering Hole knew it, and I’d be there at eight to find out. Even if they didn’t know it, at nine, I’d be at the dam.

The bar looked completely different at night than it did during the day. Between all the lights shining on the place and all the bikers in the parking lot, the bar actually passed as decent. There were easily ten motorcycles for every car in the gravel lot. I lost count somewhere around fifty bikes. There was no doubt that it was purely a biker bar.

    I pulled around to the back, sliding my car between two tall pickup trucks. For a few minutes, I sat there; engine still running, lights still shining on the cinderblock wall. My entire day had been spent walking into the unknown, but that bar was something else entirely. I knew my past was inside. The past that was Patience and my real past. My future was west of town at a small creek.

    Before I left my apartment, I thought about the glove box. I thought about the glove box for a long time. What to do with the guns? I sat on my kitchen table staring at them both. I brought them in from the car wrapped in a sweatshirt and laid them on the table as if they could go off at any moment and in any direction.

    At first, I wanted to leave them back at the apartment, but I decided against it. I was heading to the stomping grounds of a biker gang, after all. I was sure on one thing: I didn’t need two.

    The pistols were identical. Black Smith & Wesson’s with wooden handles. I only knew the manufacturer because it was stamped on the guns. For long while I stared at them there on the table. When my body would remain still any longer, I picked one up and found the button that slid the clip from the handle. It dropped right into my hands like it was choreographed. The magazine was full, and with a quick shove, I slid it up into the grip. I pulled the slider back and found a bullet in the chamber.

    My brow wrinkled in confusion at how effortless it had been. I knew exactly what I was doing. I knew what to look for, and I knew how to handle the gun. It wasn’t my first time holding a gun, even if I couldn’t remember doing it. It all felt way too comfortable. Nevertheless, I picked up the second pistol and did the same thing. Both magazines were full, and both guns had a bullet in the chamber. I double checked that the safety was clicked into place on both.

    Back at the bar, I stared off into the distance as I thought about the guns. One had been hidden beneath my pillow, and the other sat in the glove box next to me. It felt like my hand had a mind of its own. It wanted to reach for the glove box. It wanted to take the gun out and slide it into my jeans before I stepped out of the car.

    With no memory, I told myself that I couldn’t trust my own instincts. I was trapped in a world where I couldn’t trust anyone; least of all myself. That thought made me want to