Now that Mother’s gone, I have…
Nobody.
I’ve spent so many months in a fog of despair, and talking to him pulled me out of it.
A cold chill envelops me as I watch him trying over and over to get his motorcycle started. It’s stalling, and his frustration grows with each failed attempt.
I’m shivering, teeth chattering, as I watch his frenzy when I hear someone whisper, “Go to him.”
I jump, nearly tumbling to the floor as I whip around, trying to find who said that. They have to be close; it felt like the words were whispered right in my ear, but there’s nobody nearby. Even the lady who waited on me is at the other end of the bar serving customers.
Wait. The cold. The voice…
“Mother?” I slap my hand over my mouth. This is crazy. Imust be losing my mind, because this can’t be happening.
I hear Torren scream obscenities at his motorcycle. The bike won’t start, and it feels karmic—like the universe is preventing him from leaving.
My feet move on instinct, running along the white and red checkered floor to catch him before he leaves. I don’t know why I’m doing this, but it feels correct—like not doing this will haunt me forever.
“You want your order to go?” the woman who waited on me calls out.
“Yes!” I reply, then change my mind. “No! Uhh… I’ll be right back.”
The glass door rings as I fling it open and run to the man. His helmet-clad head swivels my way, and another string of obscenities leaves his mouth.
“Wait!” I call out.
I close the distance between us, and he pulls off his helmet, eyes blazing, and screams, “Stay back!”
I stop dead in my tracks.
He points at me. “Go back to the diner. Now.”
I can’t. My feet won’t move.
His black hair blows in the breeze, and the sun shimmers off his skin, making him look golden. He’s weathered in the most perfect way. The wrinkles in the skin around his eyes and his scruff make me tingle all over, and that leather jacket looks almost obscene on his perfect body.
I realize I’m staring at him, then shake my head, freeing myself from my trance. “W-what happened? I thought we were—”
“I know who the fuck you are,andwho your piece of shit father is.”
My voice gets caught in my throat. I didn’t think about people recognizing me.
“What are you doing here?” he asks. “Scoping the rubble so you can report back to daddy how fucked up we all are because of him?”
His words hit like a gut punch. He knows who I am; that’s why he ran. I’d hate me, too, if I lived here. My father is an asshole, and I respect this man’s ire to be completely honest.
“I’m not my father,” I finally reply. “I don’t agree—”
He grabs me by the collar and pulls me close, but something in him falters. Our eyes lock, and he loosens his grip.
He closes his eyes. When they reopen, the anger is back. “Listen to me, rich boy.” His breath heats my skin like fire, and the smell of cigarettes and leather wafting off him is delicious. He’s so angry and mean and…
Real.
There are no walls, no facades that stand between us. Just pure, unadulterated heat, and I feel like I’m floating.
My hands wrap around his wrist, not to push him away, but to keep them there. The more his jaw clenches, and his fingers grip my shirt, the more I wish he would just rip the goddamn thing right off my body.
