Want the Worst
1405 Words
Alex:
I felt him before I saw him.
That coiled energy. That watchful stare.
Like a predator who didn’t know he was the prey.
Luke Jennings had no idea what kind of fire he was playing with.
He was a man with a badge and a conscience—
and I was the b***h with a gas can and a box of matches.
I sipped my whiskey without tasting it, pretending I didn’t see him watching from the bar like I was some puzzle he couldn’t find all the pieces to. My skin itched under his gaze, but I didn’t move. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t blink.
Instead, I let the hem of my shirt slide just a little lower on one shoulder. I laughed too loud at something Kandi didn’t even say. I leaned my exposed cleavage to the table edge like I was trying to distract him.
Because I was.
Provocation was my favorite game. And Officer Pretty Boy?
He was already losing.
The moment he slid into the booth across from me, I knew he couldn’t help himself. That made two of us.
He looked like sin dressed in duty, sitting there with his jaw clenched and his jacket hiding the badge. But it was in his eyes I say behind the mask—restraint fraying, hunger bleeding through.
And when he finally stood, following me out without a word, I smiled to myself.
Hook. Line. Collared.
The parking lot behind Cougar’s was dim and dirty—
broken bottles in the corners, gravel under my boots, chain-link fencing casting fractured shadows across the cracked asphalt.
He followed me like a storm, slow and tense, each step closer to unraveling.
I didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking back.
I leaned against my bike, arms crossed, legs locked, letting the hum of danger settle around me.
“You always make it that easy?” he asked, voice low, tight.
I looked over my shoulder, one brow raised. “Only for the ones I don’t like.”
He blinked, caught off guard by the venom I laced into my flirtation.
Good. Let him taste it.
“Then why’d you let me follow you?”
I smirked. “Didn’t let you. I just didn’t stop you.”
He stepped closer. Too close. His boots nearly brushed mine, and for a breathless second, I thought he might grab me. Press me back into the seat of my bike and try to take control.
I wouldn't let him, so I took control first.
I leaned forward and kissed him.
Hard. Sharp. A clash of teeth and heat. No romance, no gentleness. Just punishment.
I didn’t like him.
I didn't like what he represented.
Corruption. Control. Pain dressed as protection.
All the things I’d learned to hate.
His hands found my waist, then slid up, fingers curling in the hem of my shirt. I deepened the kiss like I was starving, even though I couldn’t feel a f*****g thing.
Because this wasn’t about want.
This was about numbness.
About taking back the night. About using the badge in front of me instead of letting it use me.
His breath hitched.
His grip tightened.
And then… he pulled away.
Slowly. Like every inch hurt.
His eyes searched mine like he didn’t understand the rules anymore.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked, voice raw.
I let out a bitter laugh. “Because you let me.”
That’s when he left. Just walked away, jaw tight, fists clenched, boots echoing in the silence.
And I stood there, alone with the kiss still wet on my mouth and a hollowness in my chest that had nothing to do with him.
I leaned back on my bike, casting my gaze up at the stars, pretending I didn't notice his headlights disappearing into the night.
I hate I'm like this, but I am. Always expecting the worst. Never letting my guard down. It all started six years ago.
I was seventeen when I earned my place in the MC.
No patches. No sisterhood.
Just blood.
It started with a job gone sideways.
We were supposed to scare him.
He touched one of our girls at the club—
grabbed her by the jaw and told her to “act right” when she spilled his drink.
I told him to leave.
He told me to smile more.
So I beat him until his jaw shattered.
The girls watched. Silent. Wide-eyed.
Kandi was the first to move, her mouth lifting in the smallest, cruelest smile I’d ever seen.
That night, they didn’t hand me a patch.
They handed me a knife and a lighter.
Told me to pick one.
I took both.
I cremated that place, along with my past, into ash and didn’t look back.
Burned the name I was born with.
Burned the girl I used to be.
Alex Donovan was forged from fire and fists,
and every time someone asked how I joined the Sirens,
I smiled and said, “By burning hotter than the boys.”
That night, I knew I was in.
But I also knew what it cost me.
I hadn’t trusted a man since.
Not with my name. Not with my scars.
And sure as hell not with my soul.
So when Luke Jennings looked at me like he wanted to understand,
all I wanted to do was crush that curiosity before it got too close to the truth.
Because the truth?
It was ugly.
And men like him don’t love ugly things.
Back at the clubhouse, the girls were loud—drinking, laughing, doing shots off each other’s stomachs. A birthday or a breakup, didn’t matter. Any excuse to self-destruct beautifully.
But I didn’t join.
I sat in the parking lot, cross-legged on the concrete, wiping down my chain and thinking about the way Luke’s hands had hesitated before they slid under my shirt.
Soft. Gentle.
Wrong.
Men weren’t supposed to touch me like I was something breakable.
They were supposed to flinch when I glared.
Fall when I hit.
Beg when I left.
That was the way of it.
So why the f**k did I keep seeing his face?
Why did his confusion hit harder than his mouth ever could?
Why did he walk away when he could’ve ruined me?
That was the part I couldn’t forgive.
It was close to 2 a.m. when I heard it—
the low hum of a patrol car engine slowing near the edge of the property. I was in the shadows, crouched next to my bike, chain in hand, greasy fingers twitching.
Headlights. Soft. Intentional.
Luke.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t wave.
Didn’t blink.
He lingered. Five seconds. Ten.
And then he drove off.
But this time, I didn’t let him leave me behind.
I swung a leg over my bike, fired up the engine, and followed.
No helmet. No hesitation.
Just wind. Rage. Confusion clawing at my ribs.
He didn’t speed up. Didn’t try to lose me.
He didn’t even look back.
I followed his taillights out past the outskirts of town, down into the old industrial park—abandoned warehouses and roads that didn’t make the maps anymore.
He pulled over under a rusted streetlight. Cut the engine. Waited.
I rolled to a stop twenty feet behind him. Let my engine idle.
We just sat there, two ghosts under a broken sky.
Finally, he stepped out. Turned to face me.
His voice was quiet. “You want to finish what we started?”
I shook my head.
“No,” I said. “I want to understand why you didn’t.”
That got him.
His jaw locked. “Because you deserve better than a parking lot f**k with a man you don’t like.”
I dismounted. Walked closer. One slow step at a time.
“And what if I don’t want better?” I whispered. “What if I only know how to want for worse?”
He stepped toward me, mouth a tight line.
“I don’t want to be your wound,” he said. “But I don’t know how to stay away, either.”
We stood there. Inches apart.
Breath tangled. Shadows long.
And for the first time in years, I felt seen.
Not controlled.
Not pitied.
Not feared.
Seen.
I didn’t kiss him again.
I didn’t touch him.
I just stood in the silence
and let it tell the truth for me.
- Writer
