Page 7 of Bleed Me

Silently, Art unlocked the door of the impressive house built by John, Tuck’s dad. I was only half-surprised he had a key. After what I had learned the past few days, Diesel was in far deeper with the Ward family than I had known. This being where I lived only a week ago, I moved easily in the dark, not making a sound. Art followed me up the stairs. He didn’t trust me. I didn’t blame him. I wasn’t mad. I was too thankful he was gifting me this goodbye.

Sneaking down the hallway, I stopped at Tucker’s open door. His heavy breathing told me he was sleeping—safe to peek in. I fought tears when I saw a broken picture frame of me and him on his nightstand. On the floor, across his room, was the shattered glass. The wall was damaged where he had thrown it. I’d never seen the pic before but recognized the place I had been with Tucker that day. And I knew who had taken it. Viola.

As could be seen in the photo, Tucker was considerably bigger than me. He was just like his daddy. And Diesel, for that matter. Looming men with a presence that demanded respect, or at least sensible caution.

From my heart, I told my best friend, I will miss you. I looked to the picture of us smiling, Tuck’s arm over my shoulder. Thank you for all the laughs and great times, and for a friendship I was a lucky bastard to have.

I continued down the hallway. My bedroom door was shut. I understood. No part of me wanted to see the emptiness either.

The closer I got to Delilah’s room, the more I could smell her sweet scent, even through the closed door. It wasn’t locked, so Art and I slid inside. We both stopped and held our breath when catching a glance of her closed, swollen eyelids. They were easy to see in the glow by the little lit lamp on her nightstand. She had cried herself to sleep while holding the urn she believed held my ashes.

Art grabbed his chest and backed away, the sight too much to bear. Was it her sadness? Or the fact Delilah was holding the ashes of a stranger. Maybe he was intimately disturbed by her clinging to me. Maybe it was all of the above. With how he paled, maybe he felt guilty over it all.

Me? I stepped forward, wishing I could take away her pain, knowing I was to blame. Tears dripped from my lips as I smiled, thankful to see sleeping V was right by her side.

I didn’t dare touch Delilah with more than my silent love. If she were to wake and see me, I think it would have destroyed the little bit of sanity to which she was clinging. So, in my mind, I whispered, Tell, darlin’. Tell someone what I did so that you can find peace. Peace you deserve, beautiful-hearted girl. I fucking love you so much. I’m willing to walk away from the light I want nothing more than to run to. I laid my hand over my heart. Right here. Right here, Delilah.

Then I did the hardest thing… I turned, turned and walked away.

On the way out of her room, I saw another urn on her dresser. Art shook his head and pointed to the door.

Outside of the house again, walking toward his parked bike down the street, I asked about it. He explained, “Your mother asked for your ashes.”

“W-What?” Through all this, my mother barely even crossed my mind. When I moved out, I pushed her and her tragic life far from mine.

“Yeah. Delilah didn’t want your mother to have you. That’s the freedom Diesel was talkin’ about.”

“Delilah didn’t want me to go back to my mom?” I almost lost my footing.

One, I was shocked my mother was sober enough to care, but what was Delilah wanting me free of? How did she know I even needed this freedom?

I rubbed my sternum, trying to settle an ache or pain or lost memory trying to surface—At fifteen, I was walking through the kitchen when my mother’s new boyfriend made a pass at me. He grabbed my ass. “I’ve heard about what you used to do. Don’t worry, I like them older.”

Appalled and clueless to his meaning, I shoved at his chest. “What the fuck are you talking about sick fuck!”

“Hello. You want one, Kenny?”

I blinked and saw that I was walking next to Artist as he pushed his bike to not wake anyone. “Huh? Want what?”

He lifted a brow. “Damn, you do go all brain-foggy at night. I said, do you want a shower.” Eyeing me as if not sure what was going on in my head, he handed me a helmet. “You stink.”

Art, without being asked, was being kind. Whatever those bikers heard me say in that field that night changed their hatred for me. I didn’t have the guts to ask why.

Taking the helmet, I sneered, “That tends to happen when assholes lock you in a hot as hell barn while they cremate your fake body.”

Smirking, he got on his bike. “Technically, you forced that hand with your stunt by driving straight into a tree.”

I actually chuckled. “You’re a dick. Your buddy was about to tie my hands to the steering wheel. I decided to take hold of my own fate.”

“You should’ve let Jesus take the wheel because Diesel had just called off the kill.”

“W-What? I could still be alive?” I turned to face Delilah’s home down the street. “I could still be with her?” The quiet of the night somehow pounded in my ears.

So did Art’s words. “Right now, she has a chance at a normal, happy life. If she knew you were alive, would that chance still exist?”

The answer was no.

My head dropped forward as I begged myself to not take that chance away.