Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

I hadn’t known what it was (Snap had to tell me).

Even so, the minute I’d read it, the morning after our first night together, I’d touched my lips to it.

I’d had no questions about it. It said it all and what it said defined Snapper.

I knew Snap had not lived in night with demons plaguing him. He had not suffered evils. He had not endured untold tortures. He had fought no bloody battles. And God willing, he never would.

He had a good family who loved him, found another one who did the same, then won the heart of a woman who, day by day, became more tied to him.

But he was so self-contained. So self-aware. So self-assured. I knew deep into my soul that he could be delivered direct to the gates of Hell, and with head high and shoulders straight, he’d walk right through without a blink of his eyes or even a moment’s hesitation.

It was just the man he was.

That wasn’t right.

It was just the man that my man was.

When he’d told me what that poem was, not wanting me to worry, he also told me it meant nothing in regards to his history. It was just the series of words that was the favorite he’d ever read. It spoke to him and he wanted it on him to remind him of the power of those words, and if the time should come for him, it would serve to remind him to be that man.

I did not tell him he already was that man. I hoped he’d never have to find out.

But if he came to a time where he’d be tested, I knew he would then know the man he was, the man he was to me.

In a miracle of goodness, as miracles tend to be, with all of Snapper’s autonomy, I did not feel left out.

In the weeks since we’d officially begun, it was not unusual I came home from a shift to find Snap stretched out on my couch reading. He wasn’t about meeting me at the door and dragging me up the stairs to have sex with me.

He was about me settling in with a beer or a cup of herbal tea, tucked into him in front of the fire, me quiet and unwinding, Snap into his book but still right there with me. And then when it was time, we’d shut down the house, together, and move up the stairs, together, and find our way to the bed…

Together.

He hadn’t lied. I was his world.

It was just a quiet, unhurried world where a roof over our heads and closeness (and a cozy fire) were all that was needed.

I was quiet too. I always had been. I wasn’t attracted to bikers because they were (stereotypically) tough and wild and partying, all about loud music, loud pipes, good times, and loose women. I also wasn’t attracted to bikers (just) because of my dad.

It was the family of a club. The closeness of the brothers. But also, if you found the right one, and in the end, I had, it was about strength and protection and loyalty. The fiercest, truest loyalty I’d seen in my life had always been demonstrated by bikers.

I’d just found the exact right fit for me.

I snoozed while Snap showered but he woke me before he went, moving my hair off my neck and kissing me there.

I slid my eyes up to him.

“Have a great day, Rosie,” he bid softly.

“You too, honey,” I replied.

He touched his mouth to mine and moved away.

I rolled to my other side so I could watch him spiral down the stairs.

I had not been to wherever he lived (because he always came to me). We had not gone on an official date, but we’d spent every night together. We’d gone out to no dinners, but had shared all we could when I wasn’t working. We’d gone to see no movies, but had watched several.

Snapper Kavanaugh and Rosalie Holloway were about a little carriage house tucked far back from a city street, in our little Eden, insulated and isolated from the outside.

Perfect for Snap.

And as with everything I had with Snap, perfect for me.

I was getting ready for my shift, still bartending, but I’d be on the floor starting the next week.

I was looking forward to hitting the floor because I got paid more for bartending in the paycheck department, but I could earn a mean tip, and if I was ever going to give Snapper his reading nook and myself some garden furniture, I had to be making a lot more than I was right then making.

So I was stroking on mascara, oblivious to the fact all the discoloration and bruising was long gone. My nose was back to normal. There was a split in my eyebrow, that break and the line that created it was still pinkish, but it was lessening.

None of this factored for me.

I was just putting on mascara.

And that was when the phone rang.

The screen came up with a number not known to me and I didn’t know what drove me to answer it. I never answered calls that I didn’t know the caller because in most cases, they were marketing calls and no one liked the aggravation of marketing calls.

But I answered the phone.

And it would take a great deal of time for me to make the decision if I was glad I did, or wished I hadn’t.

“Hello?” I greeted.