Page 75 of Desert Heat

“This isn’t goodbye, Savvy,” I growled.

“It has to be.”

“I won’t accept that. Dammit,” I ran a hand through my hair. “I’m sorry. So sorry I fucked up. But I’ll never be sorry for being with you. For loving you… for taking you…. I can’t. I can’t sit back and watch you be some other man’s.”

She put up a palm. “I don’t want to be. I just want to be me. I want to stay here. I enjoy college. I will fucking walk on stage and take that degree.”

“So transfer to UNM. You can have both, me and a college degree.”

“I need space. Air to breathe that isn’ t filled with desert dust. Being here is my first chance to be free from all the MC bullshit. It felt free. And I can have that again with you and Line both gone.”

She meant it. I saw it in the firm set of her shoulders. She really wasn’t chasing me and that was a hard pill to swallow. I pulled her close, planted one last hard kiss on her lips. “Stay safe, baby girl. I hope you find what you’re looking for. You know where I am if you ever need me.”

I had to walk away before I went against her wishes and just took her like she feared I would.

I dropped her hand from mine, turned around and somehow managed to walk away like I hadn’t just left every piece of me with her.

I sat in the truck, just staring out the window. Reluctant to leave. It hit me so hard that during the few short months of fall, I had finally for the first time in my life felt fucking happy. Here at Bradbury there were no MC turf wars, or Church meetings demanding my time… for once I really was somebody else. It was a glimpse of a life that could’ve been but wasn’t meant to be.

That fucking broke me just as much as she did.

I felt numb from the colossal pain from all of it. It wasn’t until bangs coming from the bed of the truck snapped me out of it.

I let them go.

Just shoved them into the parking lot and got the hell out of Bradbury.

Fuck it if I cried.

No one was here to see or hear the bellows of pain escaping me.

It was just me, the road and the truck. I texted Tank I’d wait for him at the diner almost out of town.

When he got dropped off in the lot about an hour later, it was on the tip of my tongue to ask him how it went. But by the way his hoodie covered his massive head, I knew.

He opened the passenger door and just said, “drive.” We went in silence for a few miles until he reached into his pocket and pulled out a smartphone. He connected it to the truck’s audio and tapped a few buttons on the screen.

“The fuck, Tank?”

“Just let me be,” he grumbled like a wounded Grizzly bear when Whitney Houston’s “Where to Broken Hearts Go,” played like she was sitting in the back singing just for the two of us. “Not one fucking word, Prez.” His voice was sandpaper as he stared out the window.

“Fuck. This is helping me.”

“It’s helping me. The woman was smart. This album was a gold one.”

“Fuck, it’s gonna be a long drive.”

“I hate planes. They fall out of the sky.”

“Good, we’d be out of our misery,” I shook my head.

“Bye baby,” he whispered as we crossed state lines in between the sing playing on repeat.

“Fuck it,” I replied. This time as the song started up I started singing along having memorized it since it played slick fucking twenty times in a row. Tank barked out a laugh in surprise. “It’s all good brother. You still got me.”

“So here I am…. Can you please tell me oh! Where do broken hearts go?”We both sang in unison.

“It was a good fucking, ride bro. A good fucking ride.” Tank finally shut the song off.

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