Full Contact. Tara Quinn Taylor
the curb beside her and turned off his engine.
In fact, she walked toward the bike, studying the chrome while she willed her heart and her breath back to normal range. If he’d come looking for her, she would deal with him.
If he hadn’t, then she’d extricate herself from the awkward position with the dignity and class that were her trademark—or so she’d been told dozens of times.
Dignity and class had been embarrassingly absent when she’d bolted from her appointment with Black Leather earlier.
“Nice bike.” She walked around it, pretending she knew what she was looking for. Or at. It was a motorcycle, all right. And it was shiny.
“Thanks. You ride?”
“Nope.”
The seat behind him had a backrest and arms.
“Ever?”
“Nope.”
“You’ve never been on a motorcycle?”
Was the concept really that hard to comprehend?
“No, I’ve never been on a motorcycle.” Proud of the even tone of her voice, Ellen forgave herself for feeling like a backwoods hick thanks to his incredulity. “You might have noticed, there aren’t a lot of biker types in this town.”
The jeans he’d worn at the clinic looked different astride his bike. He’d donned the black leather vest, too.
In her bike shorts and running T-shirt, Ellen wore far less than she had before. But standing on the curb—her curb in her town—she felt twice as covered. Because she had fresh air on her skin, the air of Shelter Valley wrapping her in a loving cocoon—and she was wearing the gazes of anyone in town who passed by, or watched through a window.
“Have you ever had a massage?”
“No.” He wasn’t going to unnerve her. She’d had time to realign herself.
“Are you afraid of me?”
“No.” The answer came quickly…and rang true. Surprisingly true.
“I came looking for you.”
Ellen held her ground. “That wasn’t necessary.”
“I thought it was. You were obviously upset when you left.”
It wasn’t the first time she’d had a breakdown. Wouldn’t be the last. But they were fewer and further between.
“As you can see, I’m fine now.”
“Can we talk about it?”
“I’m not coming back.”
“I don’t intend to talk you into it.”
“Then what’s the point of talking about it? We tried something. It didn’t work.” She was fine. Healthy enough. No one was perfect. She didn’t need help. She only needed to focus on who she was—Ellen Moore, social worker, activities director, mother of a five-year-old bundle of energy who was away for the entire month visiting with his father and the model girlfriend.
“I’m not good with failure.”
He was Black Leather. A man who had popped into her thoughts on more than one occasion since he’d roared into town—quite a shock, considering she was a woman who avoided thoughts of men because of accompanying feelings of fear, revulsion or inadequacy.
“Has anyone asked you to leave town yet?” she asked.
“Of course not.”
“They will.”
“They’ll be disappointed.”
She didn’t think so.
And she hoped so.
“Do I offend you?”
“No.” He fascinated her. In a distant sort of way. A train wreck sort of way.
With both hands still on the handlebars of his motorcycle, Black Leather sighed then looked straight at her. “I’d really like a chance to sit and talk with you,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft. Gentle. “I think I might be able to help.”
No didn’t spring immediately to her lips, which unnerved Ellen a little bit. “How?”
“I’m not sure.” He shrugged and she appreciated his honesty. “Obviously there are a lot of things about you, about your situation, I don’t know. I agreed to see you with only a minimal amount of information but I now think that was a mistake and a disservice to you.”
“That’s not your concern.” He was a biker massage therapist. And not long for this town.
“I think it is. Most particularly if I have inadvertently made the situation worse.”
Two cars she recognized had driven past. Becca Parsons again. Ellen often passed the mayor during her run since Becca left work at the same time each day in order to have time in the pool with her kids before dinner. Ellen had been in high school when Becca had finally, after more than twenty years of failed attempts, carried a baby to term. The whole town had watched that pregnancy, but no one more than Ellen’s mother—best friends with Becca since grade school.
The other car that passed was Keith Nielson’s, Bonnie’s husband. Josh would have been at Little Spirits, Bonnie’s day care, waiting for Ellen to pick him up. If he was in town…
“I have to go.”
“Can we set up a time to talk about what happened today?”
He really seemed to want to help. Seemed to believe he had something to offer.
Was she honestly ready to give up? To accept who she was, as she was? To be forever held hostage to a past she couldn’t change?
She looked at Black Leather. She wasn’t afraid of him.
“Do you ever braid your hair?” It was longer than hers. And absolutely none of her business. “Nope.”
She wanted out of the cage her past had trapped her in. She wanted to be able to date. Marry again. She wanted her son to be able to hug her without having his arms wrenched away.
She’d been through counseling—individual and group. She’d exhausted all of the conventional channels and, seven years post-attack, was still struggling to accept being touched. Shawna thought this man could help her.
As a social worker, a counselor, Ellen knew that a huge part of the success—or failure—of Jay’s therapy rested with her. If she was going to do this, she had to be open to him. Completely. No matter how hard that might prove to be.
Considering this afternoon in the clinic, she didn’t think she could be that open.
But she knew something else. If she didn’t at least explore the possibility one more time—by speaking with him—she’d feel as though she’d given up on herself.
“Can you meet me tomorrow morning? Around ten?” Her stepfather, David Marks, was expecting her to help with the church bulletin before that.
“Yes. Where?”
Ellen suggested the Valley Diner.
“You want to be seen in the middle of downtown, sitting at a table with me?”
“Yes, I think I do.”
She wished she could explain to herself why that was.
CHAPTER FIVE
JAY MADE IT TO THE DINER a few minutes ahead of schedule the next morning and went in to use the restroom. By the time he’d returned, Ellen was already seated in the last booth, her back to the wall. He recognized her first by the ruler-straight set of her shoulders then by the distinctive natural blond hair that hung freely down her back.
He knew even