Page 65 of Kick

“Get in the goddamn car before you get us both arrested.”

“You promised when this was all over you would let me walk away.”

“Then I fuckin’ lied,” he snaps, coming around the side of the vehicle. He grabs the tops of my shoulders and shakes me hard. “You don’t get to walk away from this.”

“You can’t hold me, anymore, Daniel.” I push his hands away. “This is done. We’re done. I just want my life back.”

“So that’s it, huh? You just used me to get to your Priest, and that’s all I’m good for?”

“No. I used you to get strong.” I shake my head. Tears slide over my cheeks. I feel my body going through the motions, but I don’tfeelanything. “And now I’m a damn iron pillar.”

I don’t wait for a response, I just turn away. I walk away from everything they made me. Everything I felt last night with Daniel inside me, everything I’ve felt for him since I learned he was only trying to help me, that he was seeking some sort of redemption. Since I realised that he was worthy of it.

I walk away, because I’m finally free.

Imiss him so much I can’t breathe. The nightmares stopped for a little while, but now they’re back. They usually involve Biker strapped to the altar while I throw the match. But by the time I realise what I’ve done, it’s too late. He’s on fire. I’m on fire, and all I can do is stand there and watch him burn.

Watchusburn.

And then I wake, gasping for breath, terrified and alone.

“Hey girl,” Kimba says, ringing up a regular’s cheque. “You’re late.”

“I know.” I head for the back of our tiny café and hang my bag up on the hook, switching it out for my black apron that reads, ‘Death Before Decaf’. “Sorry, the trains were down.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. I’m just messing with ya, because I can,” she says, winking at me. Her bright red lipstick is perfect, even at 8:00am. She’s sort of an unconventional boss: tattoos everywhere, jet-black Dita Von Teese-style hair, pin-up dresses in crazy prints, gauges, piercings—the list is endless. I love her take-no-prisoners attitude when it comes to the long line of men queueing up to get their morning coffee. She’s gorgeous and she owns that, a serial flirt, but not a whore. If I felt anything even remotely sexual towards woman—and really, considering all I’ve been through it’s a wonder I haven’t switched teams, already—I’m sure I’d have myself a little girl crush. It’s not like she hasn’t propositioned me enough times. Kimba’s one of those rare people that swings every way. Man, woman, she’s not fazed about gender, only personalities.

“See you ladies tomorrow,” Michael says.

“Looking forward to it, Mr Wilcox.” Kimba winks, blowing him a kiss and then turning to me once he’s gone. “And speaking of Cocks … this morning when he came in, I swear to god he was stiff as my grandmother is rigid, and it was huge. You picked a hell of a day to be late, lady.”

I laugh, despite how uncomfortable this subject makes me. Truth is, in the month I’ve worked here, Kimba’s never been particularly good with boundaries. I didn’t think I’d be okay sharing a space again with someone who hugged me, or casually touched my shoulder when they walked past, but surprisingly I am. Kimba makes me feel better; less lonely somehow. And already she feels like more than just a boss—she’s a friend, which is something I don’t really ever remember having before. Not like this.

Of course, she knows next to nothing about me, aside from what the media had broadcast all over the airways when I showed up on my parents’ doorstep after a month of being missing, looking as if I’d just escaped a horror movie, covered in blood, with first-degree burns on my feet and left leg, and a severe case of “psychogenic amnesia”.

I spent a month recovering at home, seeing every shrink my parents could throw at me, applying every cream, balm and whatever other product my mother wanted to ply my scars with, as if she could erase them. As if they could be as easily removed as lifting a stain from a shirt.

I couldn’t stand the silence in that house. I couldn’t stand to look at the crucifix over the mantel in our lounge room. I couldn’t see that wooden cross with its painted sorrowful little Jesus without seeing that room, or the church on fire, or the pain on Biker’s face before I walked away. After the month was out, I went and found myself a studio apartment in the city and I moved out the very next day. I haven’t really seen them since. Their daughter returned to them safe and sound, but she wasn’t the same, and neither one of them concerned themselves enough with trying to help me get better. They were just keeping up appearances.

“Wow,” I say, realising Kimba is still waiting for my reply. “I’m kinda sad I missed that.”

“I knew you would be,” she says, and heads back to the register to serve another of our regulars when he steps up to the counter. I glance at the line of customers and head to my usual place behind the coffee machine to start making orders. Several hours later Kimba pops out to run some errands, and while we’re slow, I head to the tables out front to wipe them down. I’m just getting done with the second table when I feel as if I’m being watched. I straighten and glance at the customer behind me.

He’s sitting at the small table that was unoccupied just seconds ago. He lights up a cigarette and I inhale sharply, missing the scent of him, the sight of him, drinking in every detail I can from his black jeans and leather jacket to his boots and hair, and the stubble that’s regrown on his face.

“You can’t smoke here,” I say quietly.

“I’m out-fuckin’-side,” he says.

I nod. “I know. Still can’t smoke here.”

He shakes his head and stubs the cigarette out on the sole of his boot. The biker I knew would have done it anyway, proving to me that I’m not the only one who’s changed.

“What are you doing here, Daniel?”

“I been askin’ myself the same thing all mornin’.” Reading my confusion, he tilts his chin to the park across the street. “Been psyching myself up all fuckin’ day.” He shakes his head and gives a bitter laugh. “All fuckin’ week, actually.”

I sit down heavily on the stool beside him.

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