Rest & Trust by Susan Fanetti

especially in and near Madrone, and they helped out people who needed help—the club as a whole, and individual members, too.
     
    Lakota thought that it would be a good idea, when a patch pulled off and helped a disabled driver or rider, or just did something helpful and decent, they could hand off a card and say, “give us a call if we can help.” Hoosier had thought it a brilliant idea.
     
    So now they all carried cards.
     
    He flipped it to the back, where he’d handwritten the important part, and returned it to Sadie. “That’s my personal number. That’s how you reach me.”
     
    “Why would I reach you?”
     
    Feeling weary and frustrated, he sighed. Loudly. “Jesus fuck, sweetheart. Put your spikes down. I’m trying to be a good guy here.”
     
    “Why?”
     
    The temptation to throw up his hands and walk back down those stairs and out of this little chick’s life gave a sharp tug. But he liked her. He’d spent a disconcerting amount of the last week and a half thinking about her. He’d been drinking less, too. Correlation didn’t imply causation, but it didn’t preclude it, either.
     
    Not that he had a drinking problem. It was just a personal observation he’d made. It had been nearly a week since he’d woken up with a hangover.
     
    “Because I am a good guy. Because I put those stitches in, and I want to make sure you heal okay.” He smiled with an intent to soften her, and put his hand on her cheek. “Because I like you, little outlaw. Spikes and all.”
     
    Her eyes—not violet in the bright light of the hallway, just a kind of pretty greyish blue—stared into his. He smiled and let his eyes travel down her body. She was a sweaty mess. Her black hair, the streaks a less vivid blue than they’d been, was plastered to her head, and her mesh t-shirt clung wetly to her body. It was July in the Inland Empire, but she wore spandex running pants that went down to her ankles. Her running shoes were hot pink and neon yellow.
     
    “I don’t know what to make of you,” she finally said.
     
    “Have I given you reason to think I’m trouble? I mean, besides not fucking you—which I’d say was also me being a good guy.”
     
    “It was humiliating. And not helpful.”
     
    “Was it wrong, though?”
     
    Again, she stared for a few seconds. She had not yet opened her door. Finally, she slid her hand into a pocket in her waistband and pulled out a key. As she slid it into the lock, she said, “No. It wasn’t.” She opened her door and stepped through. “Come on in.”
     
    Her apartment seemed to explode all around him. Everywhere was a mishmash of every color and lots of fabrics. There was a strange aesthetic to her décor: a little bit of West Indian, maybe, a lot of Asian, some South American. Just color and pattern everywhere. And all of it was absolutely pristine. There was clutter, but it was tidy. Everything coordinated; nothing was out of place. Even standing just at the door, he could tell that.
     
    Her apartment was a studio: all the living in one space. The loft design meant high, wood-beam ceilings, rich wood floors, and an ‘exposed’ brick (which was probably just an overlay) wall. The kitchen area was in a corner at the street-side brick wall. Small, but upscale, with concrete countertops and shelves above for dishes. On the other side of the interior counter space, she had a long, unusual, bare wood table with six brightly-colored plastic chairs around it. A clear vase full of red tulips had pride of place in the exact center.
     
    Most of the rest of the apartment was arranged like a living room, with a patchwork of different rugs laid over each other. There was no bed anywhere, and at first Sherlock thought that the apartment was a one-bedroom instead of a studio. Then he realized that the ‘sofa’ was actually a daybed.
     
    For all the wacky, boho charm, what Sherlock liked best was her big television. Not nearly as big as his, but it sat atop a unit with all