Page 45 of Painted Scars
I start the engine, letting it rumble and dampen her questions. I also need the moment to breathe. I’m jealous of her fingers as she buckles her helmet. It should be me securing the chin straps and stroking along her neck.
I grip my handlebars tighter when she slides on behind me. The bike dips with her weight, her body warm and soft behind mine. Hands glide from my stomach to my chest. Provocative little siren.
The motorcycle growls beneath me, matching the pulse in my veins. I take off hard, fast, like I’m outrunning everything I feel. She screams like she’s free-falling. Of course, she’s loving this. Chaos suits her. So does the back of my bike. Her laughter is raw and wild, the sound of someone fearless, and it pierces my armor. One more crack I can’t seal.
We pull into the back lot behind Jack’s Diner. It’s the kind of place that hasn’t changed its decor since the Cold War. Food is decent and the price is right, so it’s always packed, inside and out. Subzero temperatures have chased customers inside, leaving only us to dine outside, where I prefer the privacy.
I kill the engine and keep my helmet on, letting the silence stretch while she hops off my bike, a temptress in boots.
Her smile is the first thing I see when she removes her helmet. “My treat. I insist since you’ve been overly generous. What do grumpy stalkers eat? Blood? Guts? Hearts?”
“Whatever’s left after I scare the soul out of them,” I reply.
She sets the helmet on the back seat. “Ohh. You want fries with that?”
“I want a side of glitter and sass.” I spank her on the ass and dismount.
At the outdoor window, she orders a double cheeseburger, fries, onion rings, and a soda. I wave her away when she goes to order for me. I already ate. Fed, fueled, and ready for the chaos she strikes. Rule number one—Don’t go into a mission or fake friendships on an empty stomach.
When the food arrives, she inhales it, telling me she hasn’t eaten in a long time. My guess is she didn’t have the stomach for it the last couple of days, after having to deal with her boss.
The smell of fried oil, heat from the food, and the chill in the air contrast with the warmth she expels.
The damn vixen licks grease and salt from her fingers and nudges the bag of fries my way. “Here. Surely grumpy stalkers eat fries?”
Clever. Another attempt to get me to take off the helmet.
Not happening, glitter sista.
“Only on Fridays,” I deadpan, pushing them back.
Now’s a good time as any to divert her attention, and I remove the wrapped ornament from my pocket, setting it on the wooden picnic table with a click.
“This is for you,” I say. “I made it. Grumpy stalker special.”
She scrubs her hands with her napkin. “Another gift? You’re spoiling me, hubs.” I wait for a quip about severed fingers that doesn’t come.
I smile inside my helmet as she unravels the unicorn, and her eyes widen and lips part like she’s forgotten to breathe. Glass shimmers with swirls of purple, pink, green, and blue of the animal’s mane.
“You made this?” Her voice is soft and sacred.
She lifts it to the light from the restaurant, and the orange tail and red horn glow like fire. One ear is a little wonky, but the horn came out twisted and perfect. Miracles happen.
I rub my knuckles. “I work the furnace, kneeling oven, blow torch, and tools most spare nights I have, which aren’t many. Call it my form of relaxation, minus the smut.”
She smiles at that last part, stroking the unicorn’s mane like it’s priceless, and that’s all the thanks I need.
Equipment like that isn’t cheap. Katar diverted funds for me from the fortunes of Romans to purchase it as a little fuck you to them for destroying my career.
“The colors remind me of your hair,” I say. “The unicorn is flawed, but strong. Survived the fire, reshaped in the furnace.”
Her fingers still on the glass. She understands my meaning.
She holds a piece of me that I don’t know if I’ll get back. And it frightens me to think she might know what it cost to make it.
“I’m calling him Glitterhoof,” she whispers with a dazed smile that sucks the air from my lungs. “He’s coming with me everywhere. Don’t be jealous.”
God help me. I smile again, wider. “Promise me he won’t be used to stab a certain fucker in the hand.”
