Page 35 of Dare You to Run
She swallows and almost looks guilty for the fact that she had people that wanted her so badly that they were willing to do anything to be in her life. Including marrying someone who violated them in the worst way.
“Not to be disrespectful or anything, but why didn’t your dad press charges?”
She shrugs with a sigh. “From what I understand, he didn’t think anyone would believe him. A nineteen year old boy accusing a woman of raping him. He was drunk and on drugs –unbeknownst to him– so she could’ve easily turned the story around. Who would have you believed?”
“Damn. You’re right.”
We sit in silence for a moment longer before our food is placed on the table. We fill our plates and take the first few bites before we speak again.
“So,” she starts. “You met Malik and Danté while you were at a foster home together?”
Nodding, I tell her our story. “We all ended up in a group home for boys when we were fourteen. Miss Shirley was thedirector there, which is why the three of us take such good care of her now. We put her through hell.”
Dagen chuckles softly and says, “I have no doubt about that.”
I fling a soybean at her and she dodges just before it hits her on her forehead. “D and Mal and I didn’t really care for one another at first, but all it took was one night of underage drinking and idiotic dares to bring us together.”
“And the rest is history?”
“Exactly. When we aged out of foster care, we decided that we’d make our own family. The three of us legally changed our last names to Dare and that’s how we became brothers.”
“Was this before or after the millions of dollars came? Which, by the way, you are a huge hypocrite.”
I don’t like talking about money. Growing up with none and suddenly having more than you can spend in a lifetime is a huge life shake up. Some people roll with it and show off their money, searching for the status and approval that they didn’t have before. Example: Danté. Then there’s me. Yes, I buy nice things. But my home is the only one I own and probably the only one I’ll ever own because I designed it how I wanted and I don’t want to have to go through that process again.
Everyone in town knows our story. Those who abandoned us came running with their hands out. There were very few who actually realized we were boys in need of guidance and love. Those people –Miss Shirley, Officer Ulrich and his wife, and our high school principal Mrs. Kirkland– we made sure to thank them in whichever way we could.
But even with all of that, I still like to keep to myself and fade into the background. I let Danté be the star that he’s always wanted to be. I’m just the cranky rich asshole who doesn’t like people that is either hiding in his home or riding bikes with his brothers.
Dagen still stares at me, waiting for me to say something. “How about we not talk about shitty moms or money?”
“I like that idea.” She smiles and it instantly brightens the dim restaurant.
Kind of how it brightens my dark mood, and I’m not sure if I like it.
We spent another hour eating and talking and I did something I haven’t done in years with someone other than my brothers. I laughed. Not one of those courteous laughs you give to strangers, but an actual feel it in my belly laugh.
“Did you want me to go ahead and drive?” She asks as we gear up for the ride home.
Another laugh expels from my mouth along with a smirk. “Nice try, little mouse, but that won’t be happening on my watch.”
“Why not? I’ve driven my Dad’s Harley before?” She tugs her helmet on and flips the visor open.
“A Harley is a lot different than a Superleggera V4.” I tug my gloves on, wiggling my fingers to ensure they’re snug.
“I doubt that. A motorcycle is a motorcycle. Two wheels, two handles. Same.”
A mischievous idea blooms. “Okay, little mouse. You let me take you on a real ride meaning I get to really open it up. If after our ride you still feel like you can handle a machine like this between your legs, I’ll teach you to ride.”
She smiles and flips her visor down and I swear I hear her mumble, “Maybe you can show me how to ride a different kind of machine.”
“Huh?” I ask.
“Oh nothing,” she says quickly and climbs on back.
She may not be ready to admit it, but I know what she said. And though she may think she knows what she wants, I’m willing to show her what she needs.
I throw my leg over my prized possession and get situated. This baby isn’t a mass produced bike and it’s the one item I would’ve happily spent my fortune on. Who cares that it was made to race on a track. I wanted it in my hands and I was going to have it no matter what anyone said. So the thought of anyone driving it but me makes me want to crawl out of my skin. The fact that Dagen is riding with me is a feat. No one rides this bike but me.
