Page 3 of Fly Back to Me
I’m shrugging my coat over my long-sleeved thermal as I speak over the clanking glasses. “She’s loving it. It’s only a couple weeks in, but she says she fits in better there than when she was working at Southstone Memorial.” I slap on a tight-lipped smile and pat Mike’s shoulder through the leather of his jacket. “I think people undermine the importance of working with a good group of people. That’s not as easy to come by these days.”
Lacey rests her palms at the V-neckline of her black top. “You two are just adorable.”
I grin as I peel my hand away. “Not usually the compliment given to tattooed bikers, but sure.”
We begin our journey through the crowd to the exit of Last Call. “You still rocking just the one sleeve?” Mike asks.
“Yeah, I’ve grown to like the asymmetrical look,” I admit, my fingers ambiguously tracing the leather over my right pec. “I actually extended the black and gray over my chest. Jenna’s idea. Clearly, I’m a sucker for an ink-clad needle.”
The brisk September air greets us on the other side of the glass door, and I’m spinning on the heels of my boots.
“Alright, I’m parked in Guam. I’ll say goodbye now.” I hold my hand out to Mike for a handshake-hug, and then Lacey and Iembrace before we all sever ways.
I dig my hand in the back pocket of my jeans, plucking a cigarette and lighter from it. Lodging the smoke between my lips, I shield the gentle breeze with one hand while the other works the ignitor.
My mouth purses around the tip of the cylindrical paper, and I inhale the bitter taste of tobacco. Tucking the lighter away, I blow out a thin ribbon of smoke against the midnight.
I always expect parking to be a hassle on a Saturday night, but when I rode my motorcycle into the lot directly behind Last Call, every white-lined spot was occupied. Even when I journeyed the village street, vehicles were lined bumper to bumper on both sides. Eventually, I just rode off the main strip, locating a random parking lot behind a couple brick buildings.
I travel along the cement of the sidewalk, finally curling around the corner leading to my motorcycle. There’re only a few cars residing in the small lot, a pale glow stamped on the center of the blacktop from the single light pole.
The shade of the sky has deepened, dotted with just a handful of stars. My brows dip on my next puff of smoke, suddenly recognizing how shitty the lighting is in this desolate space.
My legs idle in front of my Harley, my body quickly swiveling to lean my lower back against the side of my bike. I raise my right palm to curl around the chrome of the handlebar, and my stainless-steel ring clanks against the surface.
I slope my chin toward the sky, taking another drag of the cigarette before ejecting a string of smoke. My eyes squint, fastening to the twinkling stars against the midnight canopy. There has to be only twenty or thirty stars maximum. But each one glistens incredibly bright, a golden halo practically outlining each spec.
My mouth encloses around the end of the withering paperagain, ingesting one last taste before dropping the cigarette on the ground. I press my black boot into the smoke, crushing it against the asphalt before the grating blends with a faded murmur.
Silent alarms ring through me, whipping my head over my shoulder.
A suspicious quiet floods the air, locking all of my senses except my hearing. My eyes roam the brick of the building in the near distance, and another muffled sound abruptly scrapes my ear.
It doesn’t caress it.
Itscratchesit.
A strangled noise vibrates through once more, my gaze plummeting to the worn dumpster at the corner of the building. Stamped into the night, its steel sides are dented and streaked with grime, overflowing with discarded boxes.
My face falls with confusion, my body pivoting until I’m crouching down.
I lean forward, bracing a palm on the coarse pavement. I glimpse between the ground and the base of the dumpster, the thin space distorting with shadows of motion. My gaze narrows, and I realize I’m looking at the faint silhouettes of shoes.
There’re people behind the dumpster.
I cautiously lift myself off the ground, my internal sirens rattling against my ears as I tentatively approach. An invisible fishing hook has sunken into my skin, gradually reeling my body closer.
With every inch, the ominous weight in my gut grows heavier. As if one pound is being added with each tap of my heel and toe against the black pavement.
Light casts on the steel structure before me, radiating with just as much allure as those goddamn stars.
Somehow.
My mind plunges into a trancelike state, my body fully committed to getting an answer. An answer to a question I don’t know the reason for.
But once I hear the next word thread through the air, I find a purpose.
“No.”
