Page 82 of Veil of Blood

We hit 80. Then 90. The coupe stays close, its driver ducking his head to focus on his speedometer. I glance at his mirror image—young, adrenaline burned into his grin. But I’m steadier. I don’t flinch.

Rocco’s name crosses my lips without warning: “Rocco.” Not a plea. A thought. A recognition. He’s my peace. But I’m not done running yet.

My foot nudges the pedal further. The engine roars. I edge ahead—half a car length. Then another. The guardrail thumps past, white markers crawling beneath our wheels. My world contracts to hood ornament and horizon.

The coupe’s driver fights back, shifts aggressively. His back tires lose grip for a heartbeat, then claw traction and surge. I push my car harder. Focus narrows. Time dilates.

At 100, I’m in the lead. His engine note falls behind mine. I let the shift hit the rev limiter, slip into third, then fourth. The road straightens. The sea stretches infinitely beside me. My heart pounds, but my breathing is measured.

Then I ease off. The finish line is wherever I choose. I coast past a crumbled turnout sign for an old fishing shack, let my speed drop. The coupe catches up, roars past with a two-finger salute. I lift a hand in return. No words. No fanfare.

He peels off into the night, tail lights fading until only mine glow in my mirror. I clamp both hands on the wheel and breathe deep.

I guide the muscle car onto a cliffside overlook just ahead. It’s empty—just me and this stretch of road hanging over the Gulf. I kill the engine. The sudden quiet presses in. My limbs loosen. The world’s edges sharpen. Heat radiates from the hood onto my boots.

I slide out, boots striking cool gravel. No phone, no distractions—just this moment. I lean on the hood and watch the sun dip beyond the horizon. Gold slips into lavender, then violet. Stars flare overhead, distant and timeless.

I inhale deeply, chest rising. The scent of salt is stronger here. I let it fill my lungs.

This is me: not hiding, not running from ghosts. I’m racing toward a future I choose—one shift, one moment, one breath at a time.

Headlights sweep across the hood of my car, and my shoulders tense for a split second, instinct sparking through me—then my chest eases.

I know that light, that low growl of an engine. I turn, leaning back against the driver’s door, the metal still warm from the run, radiating faint heat into the cooling dusk.

The black truck parks behind me, and he steps out, no coat, just a clean shirt, collar pressed, sleeves rolled up over strong forearms, hands loose at his sides.

No weapon, no armor, just Rocco, every line of his stance familiar, like a song I haven’t heard in too long but still know by heart.

We stand apart, two shadows in the widening dusk, the ocean thumping below, its rhythm grounding us as waves crash against the rocks.

The fading light catches the stars just starting to prick the sky, and the silence between us is heavy, loaded with months apart, with miles and ghosts and unspoken promises.

I break it first, my voice flat but open. “You following me?”

He doesn’t hesitate, his lips curving in a small, almost-smile, not a grin but a promise. “I missed you, so I tracked you down”.

I let out a breath, the tension in my chest loosening. “Took you long enough.”

His eyes light up, a spark of warmth before his mouth moves.“You drive fast.”

The words hang, and he doesn’t push closer, doesn’t ask where I’ve been. He just watches the horizon, the stars settling in, giving me space to breathe.

I challenge him, my voice sharper. “You mad?”

His gaze meets mine, steady, unflinching. “No.”

“Good,” I say, relief flaring in my chest, hot and quick.

He nods once, then steps closer, stopping just short of touching, a half-step from closing the distance. I hold my ground, my pulse kicking up, the air between us charged.

“Are you done running?” he asks, his voice low, rough with something that’s not quite hope but close.

“No,” I say, honest, my eyes locked on his. “But I’m ready to rest.”

His awareness shifts, like he feels the truth in that, and I move before I can think, stepping into him, my forehead pressing to his, the space between us collapsing into heat.

Every mile I’ve driven, every night he’s waited, converges here, a collision we can’t avoid. Our kiss builds from that still point, familiar but new, not the desperate goodbye of last time but a measured, urgent reclaiming.

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