Raw: Devil's Fighters MC by Evelyn Glass Page A

Alyssa sighed and got up. Spying from beneath the curtains at the kitchen’s window, she could see him riding his Harley towards her.
     
    She shook her head. Xavier used to be afraid of motorcycles. Seeing him riding one was shocking, surreal, and heartbreaking all at the same time. When he pulled up in front of the house, she noticed that he had changed his clothes from the previous day, but that he was still wearing his Devil’s Fighters vest.
     
    His knock came shortly after, and Alyssa had to take a few moments before she could finally bring herself to go and open the door. True to his word, Xavier was holding a paper bag from Lynn’s diner.
     
    “Bagels,” he said, holding the bag up for her to see.
     
    Alyssa nodded. “Thank you,” she said awkwardly. “Come on in.”
     
    He followed her back to the kitchen. For a moment, they just stood there, not quite knowing what to do.
     
    “I should probably toast those,” Alyssa finally said.
     
    Xavier held out the bag to her, and she set out to the task, grateful to have something to do.
     
    “Did you get some sleep?” Xavier asked from behind her, as she busied herself at the kitchen’s counter.
     
    “Amazingly, yes,” Alyssa said. “I guess I was just too exhausted to lay awake in bed.”
     
    “That’s good. At least you got some rest.”
     
    She nodded and turned around, leaning back against the counter as she waited for the toaster to do its job. “You know, you could’ve taken that thing off,” she said, unable to stop herself. “The vest, I mean. I would’ve much rather you had come in civilian clothes.”
     
    “I’m sorry,” Xavier said. “I can’t. We have to wear it all the time.”
     
    “Club rule?”
     
    He nodded.
     
    Alyssa arched an eyebrow. “God forbid anyone forgets who the Devils are?”
     
    Xavier sighed. “Alyssa, don’t do this. Please.”
     
    Alyssa nodded. “Fine.”
     
    Mercifully, the toaster picked that moment to beep, and for the next few minutes, she busied herself with serving breakfast. It allowed her to avoid his eyes. Eventually, though, they sat across from each other at the table, with cream cheese, bagels, and coffee separating them—along with eight years’ worth of pain and unspoken words.
     
    “Are you happy in Vancouver?” Xavier asked out of the blue. He asked it casually, but his eyes were searching.
     
    “Yes,” Alyssa said sincerely, because she was.
     
    Silence descended between them then.
     
    “You’re not going to ask if I’m happy?” Xavier asked after a few moments.
     
    Alyssa smiled sadly. “I already know the answer to that question.”
     
    “Really?” Xavier challenged her with a small smile. “Do you?”
     
    “I do.” Alyssa really wished she didn’t.
     
    “Tell me, then,” he said. “What’s the answer to that question?”
     
    “You don’t look happy, Xavier.”
     
    There. It was that easy, and that hard. Apparently, even after eight years, they still didn’t know how to do small talk—they never had. They always talked about anything and everything, and they always did so honestly, whether they were talking about the latest movie they had seen together or about something intimate. It looked like that one thing had not changed, and Alyssa found herself being glad about it; she didn’t think she could have taken small talk with Xavier, of all people, on top of everything else.
     
    On his part, Xavier didn’t even try to put on a mask.
     
    “I guess I’m not,” he admitted. “Although I could have it worse.”
     
    “How so?” Alyssa blurted out before she could stop herself.
     
    Xavier shrugged. “I could be dead.”
     
    The matter-of-fact way in which he said it chilled Alyssa to the bone.
     
    “That dangerous, huh?” she said, attempting to give a lightness to her voice that she didn’t feel inside.
     
    “Well, it’s no picnic.”
     
    Alyssa sighed. “Why don’t you just run away, Xavier?”
     
    Xavier stared at her.