“He isn’t waiting at home. He’s at an away game.”
She brightens. “That’s right, he is. Tough loss. How is it? Having to share him with the public?”
I don’t want to talk about August. We’re almost at my bike. It’s just around the next corner. If I can get there, it will be easy to ride away—
The blow hits me with the force of a punch on my lower right shoulder. It’s so hard and fast, I stumble forward, a guttural cry tearing from me as I fall. My knees hit the pavement withbone-jarring pain, hands slapping on the rough surface to brace myself.
Dimly, I hear Jessica’s shout, but my ears are ringing, my body throbbing with a sort of muffled horror. I’ve been hit. Something hit me. I don’t even know what. My shoulder pulses in pain.
Jessica is at my side, blue eyes wide and shocked. “Oh, my God, are you okay?”
“What...” I lick my dry lips. They’re trembling so badly I can’t coordinate them enough to form words.
“Some dickhead threw a sub at you.” She’s awkwardly petting my other shoulder, her gaze darting from me to just behind.
What?
I’m shaking now, hard, then soft, like my body can’t decide what to do. My hair hangs over my face, obscuring my vision. But then my focus comes back online, and I see the slimy remnants of what looks like a cold-cut sub scattered on the ground and, just underneath, the wrapper of the sandwich shop August promoted in a commercial last night. A slab of limp pickle rests near my knee. The ignominious sight tears a sob from deep within my chest.
Shaking, I press a hand to my mouth, and Jessica gingerly helps me up. A crowd has gathered, not many but enough. People look around confused or stare with pity.
Someone’s asking who did it. Others are baffled. Jessica says something about it coming out of nowhere. No one saw anything but me fall.
Slowly I straighten and then wince as the pain in my shoulder throbs. The violence of it. The ugliness. Bits of sandwich, mayo, and lettuce cling to my hair. I feel sick.
“You should file a report.” Jessica bends down and picks up something from the debris. It’s a hand-size slab of greasy granite. “They put a fucking rock in it!”
I swallow with difficulty. “Just get me to my bike.”
“Sure.” She’s surprisingly gentle now, holding my helmet for me as I grab my pack.
It takes effort but I keep my head high and focus straight ahead. A few phones are out and pointed my way. Fuck them.
I’ll get to my bike, get home. I don’t know if I can ride. My shoulder hurts. I have my leather riding jacket on, which padded some of the blow. How bad would it have been if I hadn’t?
My questions scatter like leaves when we round the corner and I spot my bike.
“Oh, no.” Jessica’s horrified whisper has the clarity of crystal.
Shock has me halting. My body locks up, skin prickling, heart squeezing so hard it hurts. The nausea I’ve been holding in surges thick and oily up my throat.
In the shadows near the hedge wall where I’d left it parked is my bike, lying on its side like a corpse. It’s trashed. Tires punctured and flat, leather seat slashed with the stuffing coming out in yellow white clumps. Glass glitters on the ground, remnants from the smashed instrument panel and headlight. The fenders and tailpipe are dented.
But what really gets my attention. What makes the blood drain from my face and has me weaving with the urge to collapse and cry, is the message scrawled across the fuel tank cover in ugly neon spray paint: Luck Sucks!
Thirty-Two
August
After the talk with Jelly, I’d been subdued and low on the trip home. Oddly, though, as soon as I see the glittering sea of LA spreading out in the darkness from the plane window my mood begins to lift. I’m tired, aching, and a bit hungry, but I’m home.
Coming home from a game has never made me downright giddy before. But I swear, I’m grinning as I head down the drive and see the glowing lights of the house. Just the sight of it makes me feel good. Everything relaxes. I’m home. I can shut away the world and just be.
It isn’t the house that makes me feel this way. It’s who’s in it. Penelope is my home. And I’m so fucking happy to be back, I don’t bother with the garage but pull up to the front door and park. Grabbing my gear, I’m practically skipping up the steps—yes, skipping. Look at me now, a total goner.
The house smells of the vanilla peach candles Pen likes to burn at night, and something warm and savory.
“Sweets? Where you at?” The kitchen is empty, but there’s a big pot on the stove. A quick look under the lid tells me it’s some sort of stew. Would it be bad to take a taste? Food denial has never been my strong point. I grab a spoon, sneak a bite, and groan.
