Page 23 of Painted Scars
Back in my car, I merge into traffic, crawling like a sedated snail. Horns blare. Indicators flash. Let’s not identify that funky smell coming from that open pit that the telecommunications technicians work on.
I need to release pent-up tension. Belt out a tune. No, a power ballad. I press a button on my radio to activate a CD. Celine Dion,The Color of My Love, and I rewind to the song I need.The Power of Love, her cover, and arguably the better in my opinion. Fight me on it. I crank the volume and get into it like I’m headlining a Vegas show, traffic be damned.
Right as the chorus hits, I spot him. Matte black motorcycle. Black riding gear. The biker, three cars back. Getting bolder and closer.
My chest tightens. My warble turns into a choke.
Is it my stalker? My shadow? My savior?
Something warm flickers in my belly, then immediately curdles into shame.
No. Snap out of it!
I change lanes to escape the car in front of me, weaving like a drunk dick. The biker mirrors me. Clean. Smooth. Obvious. He’s done this before.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel.
Sorry, Celine, you’re on your own for this one.
At the next right, I veer off the main drag, out of instinct, fear, or a desperate need to know his motive. It adds ten minutes to my trip. Worth it if it proves I’m not paranoid. He follows, and my heart slams against my ribs, and I rub at my sternum to scrub away the soaring panic.
Maybe he’s not my savior, but rather a monster sent to silence me. Adrenaline spikes in my blood and floods the panic. Blackthorn knows I’ve been sniffing around the morgue. He’s put a target on my back.
Guess what, asshole? You’re not going to silence me this time. The world is going to discover what skeletons hide in your closet.
The more he tries to unnerve me, the deeper I’ll dig. This demon has overstepped his welcome in haunting me.
To confirm or rule him out as the most obvious suspect, I’ve got to make a call. I tell my phone the contact to dial.
Mom answers after five rings. “Hey, sweetie, how are you?”
I get the pleasantries over with. “Fine. Work is keeping me busy.”
“How’s my grandson?” Of course, she means Josh.
“In love with Harper.” I twist the button on my shirt. “I take him for walks, play ball, save him from Mr. Rogers, and feed him. He’s still obsessed with her.”
Mom laughs. “That’s because she gives him the beef jerky.”
“Oh, thanks!” I smack my thigh. “Even you’re Team Harper. I give up.”
She chuckles, and I let it linger for a beat before I check the rearview. The biker’s gone. My breath stutters. Gone or hiding? The worst part is knowing where he is. Behind me, and I can’t see him. Waiting and watching. I’ll never know until it’s too late. I check every mirror twice. Nothing.
“Sorry I haven’t called in a while,” I try to get to the real reason I called, but she gets in first.
“That’s okay.” Her voice is too bright not to be telling. “Actually, I met someone.”
I blink. “Yeah, what’s he like?” I play with the stitching on my wrist, itching to dive in.
“Wonderful. Kind, a real gentleman. We’ve been seeing each other for a couple of months.” Sounds perfect on paper. Paper lies, and I don’t trust it.
I try to smile but don’t feel it. “I’d like to meet him sometime, Mom.” I lead into the new topic before she distracts me further. “Have you… had any trouble with my father recently?”
A short pause follows. “No, why? Did he call?”
I snort out a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
The only time I ever spoke to the man was when he phoned me afterThe Timesfired me to tell me he arranged a “favor” job for me. Cue the lecture on how I should be grateful to the man who denied fathering me, ruined my mom in court, and paid the bare minimum in child support when he’s a billionaire and can afford it. Charles Huntington never wanted me or cared. But he’s powerful, and when men like Blackthorn crawl out of the dark, my father is always nearby.
