“Who are you?” I ask.
“You’re not asking the right questions, love.”
“Don’t call me love.”
He shrugs again. “Okay.”
I pull back, having been about to let my anger out again when he agreed instead of fighting me. That’s not what I expected. I blink, then narrow my eyes on him.
“Just like that?”
“Sure,” he replies, a lazy grin on his face that I’m half convinced is only there to disarm me.
I won’t admit it’s working.
“Okay then, stop following me.”
“Ah, can’t do that one, unfortunately.”
I gape at him. This man makes less than zero sense.
“Why not?”
He waves a hand around, like that somehow answers my question. I shake my head and raise my eyebrows, my eyes wide with expectation as I make it clear that’s not a good enough answer.
“I can wait here though, until you get out of sight if you want,” he says.
Are we negotiating him following me? That’s absurd.
“How do I know you’ll do that?”
“You don’t, but if it means you’ll come into the club again tomorrow, I’ll do it. I always keep my word.”
I narrow my eyes at the hopeful glint in his.
“Are you… bargaining with me?”
His entire countenance lights up at the word ‘bargaining’ and it sends a warning prickle up the back of my neck, but his words deny it.
“I would never!” he says, placing a gloved hand against his chest as though to help convince me of his sincerity.
I scoff at his dramatics and hitch the bag of stardust higher on my shoulder. I stare at him, letting my eyes run over his face, across his dirt scuffed shirt and pants, down to his laced black boots. I search for any hint of a lie or deception, but to my consternation he continues to confound me.
I have no idea if he’s being truthful or not.
I turn and continue to stomp my aggression into the dirt as I make my way back to my bike. My mystery stalker scrambles tofollow and I pinch my lips to prevent myself making any other sort of face.
When I reach my bike, I start packing everything away with vicious, jerking movements. The hand shovel, flashlight, and other tools get shoved and zipped into a saddlebag. I carefully fold the cloth bag of stardust into my backpack, which I zip and slip my arms through, then buckle across my chest. Even if I wasn’t planning on selling it, the remains of the fallen stars would still be precious to me.
It’s all I have of my true home.
My heart thumps a dull, mournful beat in my chest, but I’m distracted from the encroaching melancholy when the bartender rolls his own motorcycle out from behind a copse of trees.
Oh, hell no.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I call out to him.
“I thought we were leaving!”
