Page 7 of The Biker and the Loner
Per the boss’s orders, only a biker should be left at the station whenever I need a bathroom break. No one else. This is where the cash is at.
There are a handful of customers waiting in line for my return. That's why I don’t notice him. I’m too busy apologizing for the wait, being polite and offering smiles.
It’s only when the queue dwindles to four customers that Ifeelit. The shift. The weight. The difference in the air. Don’t ask me how I know, but I justknow. It’s him.
I don’t look up. Because I don’t want to be right. I don’t want tosee. With shaky hands and a palpitating heart, I ring up the last few customers, murmuring for them to have a great day without making eye contact. With each one that leaves, the intensity becomes stronger and my heart beats faster.
Then, taking a deep breath, I look up and the wind is knocked out of me.
He’s here.
Five years later.
Five years. Yet it feels like no time has passed between us.
If he was muscle-bound before, then I don’t know what to describe him as now. His size is sheer insanity.What human looks like this?
He looks so…different. Serious.Hard.
The most notable difference is the long, prominent scar that runs jaggedly from just above his left eyebrow straight down to his chin. It’s as if a quarter of his face was sliced off and had to be stitched back together. Completely healed, but utterly conspicuous.
Gone is his full head of long, black hair, replaced with what looks like it used to be a military haircut but is now overgrown. His once thick, full beard has also been replaced with a thin shadow of facial hair.
His features are sharper, harsher, his eyes darker. A black t-shirt stretches across his chest and clings to his muscles. And there, around his neck, is my father’s necklace.
He still has it.
Still wears it.
“If this protection charm is as good as you say it is, then I’ll see you when I get back.”
Now he’s here. Standing in front of me.
Not that I didn’t already know he wasback. As in back from the war.
Nine months ago, he Skyped me and I didn’t answer. Nine months ago, Grunt and Kendra were over the moon that he was coming back. Not unscathed, but alive.
A helicopter he was in got shot down. It spiraled and plummeted. He was the only survivor, suffering a split-open face, a broken leg, and a chopped-off finger.
He was shipped out to Germany first to undergo multiple surgeries, then to Seattle for months of recovery and rehab, then to Boulder for continued rehab.
All this I know through Kendra. Her and Grunt have done a lot of back and forth traveling to see him and be there for him over the past couple of months.
I knew at some point he would be here. In Denver. I just didn’t knowwhen, seeing as I never answer when he calls. Not anymore.
“Quit making that face at me,” he rumbles. “I’m not a ghost.”
Right. God knows what my face must look like right now. “Are...Are you sure?”
He reaches up and flicks the chain around his neck. The pendants clink against each other with a tinny jingle. “Positive.”
“H-How are you?”
“Nuh-uh.” He shakes his head once. “If you wanted to know that, you’d pick up the goddamn phone when I call.” He sets his cup of wine-cream on the counter. “Ring me up.”
“Scratch—”
“Ring me up,” he cuts me off.
