Page 56 of Wilder Love
“You need to let him go, miss,” an officer said, pulling me away from Shane. The other officer jerked Shane’s arm and held his head down, shoving him into the back of a cruiser.
“Shane!” My eyes blurred with tears.Don’t take him away from me. Not again.
There goes my world, I thought, as the police cruiser pulled away with Shane in the back seat. He wouldn’t even turn his head. Wouldn’t even look at me.
You are my ocean, Shane.
Part II
AFTER
23
Shane
Six Years Later/July
My muscles threatened to burst the seams of a white polo shirt and the hems of the ill-fitting khakis brushed the tops of my slip-on canvas shoes as I walked through the final door and into the sunshine. Stomach churning, I blinked at the onslaught of light and I tried to breathe. I was standing on the threshold of my new life, scared to venture forth.
Me. Afraid of the outside world.
“Good luck, surfer boy. Don’t wanna see your ugly mug back here again.”
I lifted my hand to acknowledge I’d heard the corrections officer’s words and took a few more tentative steps as the door clanged shut behind me.
My dad was waiting for me outside the gate and pulled me into a bone-crushing hug. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying to God he wouldn’t cry. I didn’t even want him to speak, knowing the words would make me lose my shit. Lose the shaky grasp I had on my emotions. He released me and sniffed, holding it together.Just barely. In silence, we walked to his van and climbed in. He tossed me one of my old T-shirts, soft and faded from wear, and a pair of shorts. I changed into them while he drove and then tossed the prison-issued clothes and shoes into the back of the van with the bag of personal belongings I’d walked out with.
My first taste of freedom in six years. My first foray into a world that had changed in the years I’d been gone. It should taste sweet, this freedom, but it didn’t. Everything was so strange. Foreign. I felt like a baby bird taking its first shaky steps, trying to figure out if it was ready to fly.
Who was I now? And what the fuck was I going to do with the rest of my life?
I caught sight of myself in the side mirror and barely recognized myself. Scrubbing my hand over my buzzed hair, I stared out the windshield. The summer sun was blinding, the sky too blue, and everything around me looked fake. Radiohead’s “Fake Plastic Trees” played on a loop in my head. God knows why. I’d never been a Radiohead fan. Someone I used to know loved Radiohead, especially that song. Of course, she had.
Two days after returning home and sleeping in my childhood bedroom, I told my dad I couldn’t stay in Costa del Rey. He said he understood. I sold my quiver of boards, all but two, and my beloved Triumph. I emptied what little was left in my bank account and wrote a check for my dad. Small compensation for all that he’d lost because of me, but it was all I had so I forced him to cash it despite his protests.
I headed north, up the California coast, and I tried to forget.
But that was the thing about memories. Even when you tried your damnedest to block them out, they forced their way in, invaded your dreams and waking hours.
Karma. What a bitch.
24
Remy
Seven Months Later
Strips of black-sequined and metallic silver fabric crisscrossed over my breasts and white silk billowed around my legs as I strutted down the catwalk, hips swaying, a look of haughty disdain on my face. That was why I got paid the big bucks. I gave zero fucks.
Cameras flashed, music and lights pulsated, and the room smelled like money and expensive perfume. I stopped at the end of the runway and jutted out my hip. My eye caught on a Hollywood heartthrob and his girlfriend in the front row next to a Vogue editor and a rockstar—Bastian Cox. He winked at me and leaned in to say something wildly inappropriate to the Vogue editor. Her eyebrow arched. Just the one. But otherwise, there was no expression on her face. I smothered a laugh, pivoted and turned, and strutted past the models who had followed me down the runway. We were dressed alike, our hair slicked back, our eyes smoky and lips painted black. We looked like zombies, our skin ghostly pale under the spotlights.
It was Paris Fashion Week and Remy St. Clair was opening the show.
These days, I had so many different faces.
Who was I now?
Later that night, I was wandering the streets of the Latin Quarter. Paris in the winter was cold and gray, the air scented with crepes and garlic and butter. A busker was singing “Plastic Jesus” and I stopped to listen. Tossing some Euros into his guitar case, I huddled into my long cashmere peacoat and walked away, the music trailing after me.
