Page 16 of Bone’s Choice

Pink had a story for everything. And somehow, after knowing her for less than a day, I already felt like I’d known her much longer.

I leaned back against the couch and pulled the throw blanket over my legs. The place still didn’t feel like mine.

Not yet. I figured that would come.

Right now, it still felt like I was borrowing somebody else’s life.

Diane’s house, walls, kitchen, and backyard.

Even though she was gone, there were still little pieces of her everywhere.

A hook by the door. A worn spot on the floor near the kitchen sink. A little ceramic bird sitting on the windowsill that I hadn’t bothered moving.

Signs that someone had lived here before me.

My phone was on the coffee table. I picked it up and checked the time.

Almost ten.

I should probably go upstairs. Take a shower and get some sleep. Tomorrow I needed to start making lists.

Groceries.

Job hunting.

Whatever the hell homeowners were supposed to keep stocked in a house besides toilet paper and batteries.

Probably tools or something. I put the phone down again and my eyes drifted toward the front window.

It was dark out there. Ohio had streetlights. Headlights. People.

Here, there was almost nothing. Pink’s porch light glowed next door and that was about it.

I smiled. At least I had Pink. My new best friend, apparently.

A laugh slipped out of me. Then, for absolutely no useful reason, my brain decided to give me an image of her son.

Bone.

I frowned. “Really?”

Of course my brain didn’t answer.

I leaned my head against the back of the couch.

Bone. That name was ridiculous, but still, it fit him somehow.

I’d seen the patch on his vest. His cut? Whatever bikers called it.

He looked like somebody who belonged on a motorcycle. Tall, broad, beard, and buzz-cut hair.

The kind of man who walked toward you like he expected the space in front of him to clear. I’d noticed that immediately. I’d also noticed his arms because I had functioning eyes.

There was nothing wrong with appreciating scenery. I wasn’t dead.

He’d been attractive. Very attractive.

I’d known plenty of attractive men, though. Most of them became significantly less attractive once they started talking.