Recently, Carlie realized that she was the happiest she had been in a long time, despite all of the horror going on around them. While Russ continued to push others away, he let her in. It was what she had always wanted and never thought she would get, if she ever really thought about it at all. Carlie believed that people had the ability to change. she believed in second and third chances. She believed that nearly everyone was redeemable, no matter what they had done, no matter what they thought of themselves. All she wanted was for him to realize that he wasn’t the monster that he thought himself to be, the monster that he tried to convince other people he was. He wasn’t his father, he wasn’t his brother, he was his own person. With all of the wonderful things that entailed. She believed all of that, yes. But how did you tell someone that despite everything they thought, you thought they were perfect?
His hand holding hers felt different than it had ever felt before. It wasn’t the hand that she held when she was crossing the street to the bus stop for school. It wasn’t the hand that she reached for when she fell off her bike for help in getting back up. It wasn’t the hand that gave her an encouraging squeeze before a school concert or a graduation or the first day of a new job. It wasn’t the hand she held at too many funerals. It wasn’t the hand covered in blood from a gaping leg wound that just needed something to hold onto. It wasn’t, but it was.
She shut up. She let him lead her out to his bike and she wondered what he possibly could have hidden out there; it wasn’t like he had a lot of cargo space. “I’m sure it’s not stupid-” she started, but she stopped when she saw what he held.
Time stood still. Her vision shifted, the roses in the foreground, his face blurred in background. And then he came into focus and it was like she was seeing him for the first time. The words were familiar - he always spoke in a self-deprecating way that she always wished he would grow out of - but there was a vulnerability in his eyes…in the way his feet were planted on the ground, in the way his arm extended to present the flowers to her. It was as if everything she had always seen inside of him, everything she had always known he was and could be, was finally peeking through.
In twenty-seven years, Carlie Knight had never once found herself speechless.
She wanted to laugh. And cry. And laugh again. Instead she found herself reaching for the bouquet. She didn’t take it from him. She wrapped her hand around his and decided not to overthink. Her toes pressed against the ground and before she knew it, her lips were on his.
Finally, the thought of the thorns occurred to his brain as they stabbed his fingers. Better him than Carlie, whose hand had returned to his all over again, and he wondered when he became so aware of her touch. She had patched him up numerous times, but that wasn’t the same, of course it wasn’t the same. She had done that because she cared about him and he knew that, taken advantage of it. He had probably taken advantage of Carlie’s care for him more than he should’ve, but his negative traits were his best friends. None of those, however, could be found at the moment. He was all positive-- all light, all hope, all-- oh.
And then she was kissing him. He was kissing Carlie. The same girl he had helped across the street, the same girl who he had taken on her first bike ride ( which had pissed off her father, which had only made him laugh ), the same girl who never believed any of the shit that spewed from his lips. If he had known a couple roses would’ve gotten him in this position, he would’ve handed them over years ago.
That wasn’t true, though, because even as his fingers loosened around the flowers, dropping them on the road, Russ wished he could take it all back. He should’ve gotten her the golf club. Carlie deserved better. Much better. Anything better than him. But now with his hand free, he rose his arm to place his hand on the side of her neck, bringing her closer closer closer. He shouldn’t be kissing her, but oh, how he kissed her.
She tasted like sweetness and alcohol and he couldn’t help but grin into her lips because how fitting was that? Russell thought back to when he was young, when he thought about the woman he eventually would fall in love with, just as his parents had fallen in love. He had always imagined it’d be someone like Carlie. Someone strong, someone loyal, something who would know when to take his bullshit seriously and when not to ( although, admittedly, in more child-like wordings ). He knew it’d be tied to someone in the Desert Wolves, even if he could’ve never imagined he would wear another MC’s patch. Someone like Carlie. Never believed it would be Carlie.
And yet, here he was, a Rebel by name, a Wolf by blood, an idiot of his own making, already in love with the woman whose birthday it was.
As he went to deepened the kiss, he heard a small tick. It came from the background, it was a sound he recognized, but he couldn’t place it because his mind was more than distracted. Timing answered it for him-- he opened his eyes just as the explosion set off and the only thought that ran through his mind was I thought I had more time. Because of course he knew what had happened. Had helped plan it. But something had either gone wrong or someone had screwed him off.
With as much swiftness as he could manage, he ended the kiss that should’ve gone on forever if the world was just, and spun Carlie away from the bikes which were full of fires and shielded her with his body to the best of his ability. He had parked far away enough so his own wouldn’t be damaged, but a few scraps still managed to find their way over to them and he vaguely thinks a piece of metal flew into his shoulder. Honestly, at this point he didn’t feel much.
“You okay?” he asked, more calm than his tone should be, his eyes searching Carlie. He looked over her for injuries and as he got to the bottom of her feet, he noticed the roses were suddenly burning away. What the fuck was symbolism?
