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By the time I peeled myself away, both our chests heaved. I pressed my forehead to hers for what was probably only a few seconds but seemed like an eternity.
“Take me with you. I could help you find your father.” Tears glistened at the corners of her eyes, but she was too stubborn to let them fall. “I could shift for you.”
For one glorious motherfucking second, I considered it. But I’d caused her enough trouble.
“Not this time, Bou.” Like there was going to be another time. It was a cop out and we both knew it. I’d never hated myself as much as I did right in that second.
Bou held herself tall. “I’ll lock up and see you out front.”
Outside, I gave her and her shop one last look. Pain twisted inside my ribcage as my eyes caught hers.
The roar of a bike had us tearing our eyes away from each other.
Celt pulled in next to where Betty was ready to go. More shit? Had he come with a warrant? Beside me, Bou stiffened.
Celt dismounted and offered me a hand. I took it. We weren’t friends and there’s no way anyone could say we were on the same side, but we’d been through some serious shit in the short time we’d known each other, and we had a common goal. Keep Bou safe. Celt was really the only reason I knew I could leave her. I trusted him to look after her, even though most of the time she could look after herself better than most men. We locked forearms then he handed me a bundle of shit—a leather pouch with some cash, a shoulder-holster with a gun for each side, and my phone. “My number’s programmed in.”
“Thanks, man. Take care of her?” My fucking voice cracked and betrayed my efforts to pretend this didn’t bother me.
“Always have. Always fucking will.”
I believed him.
“Listen man,” he continued. “You saved Bou. You probably saved her life. I owe you. I’m going to do some digging on your old man. If I find out anything I’ll let you know.”
It wasn’t an apology for almost arresting me. It was far fucking better.
I nodded to Celt and hobbled the few short steps to Betty. A heaviness in my chest crept up into my throat. It felt like the hand of the devil himself was strangling me for leaving. But what I wanted didn’t matter. I mounted Betty and woke her from her sleep. With a last lingering look and kiss from Bou, I kicked Betty painfully into gear. Her engine purred as I rolled away.
31
Bou
Time in The Ridge can act like a vacuum and suck the essence of life from a person. Since Wilde left a few weeks ago, time seemed meaningless. Any meaning my life had either rode away with him, or I was falling victim to this thing Pops had called Ridge Time.
“Keep it together, Bou. If you lose your shit, you’ll never get it back,” Pops always told me when he was about to start a new project that seemed pointless. “Best to keep busy,” he’d add with this ghostly look passing over his face, then he would turn to the job. Back then, I never considered what might be behind that look.
Pops had been on to something. His ways had rubbed off squarely on his daughter. I’d become someone who couldn’t sit still and wait for shit to pass by, someone who couldn’t sit through an entire movie, someone whose fingers twitched to be wrapped around a wrench or holding my air gun or even a real gun.
I’d ridden up to the lookout that morning before sunrise. Just being on my bike in the cool morning air had been invigorating, but when I stood in the spot where I’d used Wilde’s body to convince my own that sex wasn’t a bad thing, my fading soul ached. It pissed me the fuck off.
Disappointed that even my favorite place now caused pain, I headed back to the shop just as the sun formed a bright orange line at the horizon. I hadn’t had any clients since that bastard—I never wanted that shitbag rapist’s given name to cross my lips again. Fucking ever. So I’d thought of him as The Bastard ever since.
Living in Park Ridge was pretty cheap. My pops left me the shop clear of any debt and a nice bank account, so I didn’t have many expenses. The cash The Bastard had left would see me through for a good time. But I needed a project. I turned to the old heap of shit bike that Wilde had been helping me with. The memory of the first moment we worked together sent a thrill through me, followed swiftly by the more recent, more raw feeling of regret.
Out behind my shop, I went to the far side of the old shed where Wilde had moved her weeks before and uncovered the bike. My heart pounded as I took in the beauty before me. The last time I’d looked at it, it was basically held together with spit and polish. I choked out a sob. Wilde had done this. He’d fixed it up without my noticing. All this time I’d thought he was working on Betty, but he’d really been fixing this up. She wasn’t perfect. Wilde hadn’t even started on the cosmetic work, but from a brief look, it appeared that she might actually work. I stood there for a long time, looking her over before I straddled her, careful to not put my weight on the seat just in case her bones needed some work. I backed her out then walked her into the shop. She’d be a beauty when restored to her 1940s classic two-tone, black and red with the Indian trademark skirted fenders and a new bonnet on the front. After dismounting, I ran a hand over the scuffed, torn, and bruised banana seat. I’d have to contact someone in Phoenix to refinish the leather.
I turned on the Bluetooth speaker, scrolled through my phone’s playlists, and nodded when I found just the right song. I tapped it hard with a satisfied smirk and said, “That’s right K! I’m a Mother. Fuckin. Woman!”
When I turned up the volume and the first song’s intro passed, Kesha belted out her anthem. I bopped to the beat and sang along as I gathered my tools and started dismantling the bike. After the chorus, I had to give the singer props. “You got that right, babe. Who needs a goddamn man to hold them tight?!”
I didn’t fucking need my brother to hold me or watch me, and I sure as shit didn’t need Wilde. I didn’t need anyone to hold me tight. Then I looked at the bike and saw the hours of work Wilde must have put into this and knew that, although I didn’t need him, I missed the shit outta him.
The rest of my girls, Gwen Stefani, Diana Ross, Mary J. Blige, and many others, sang in the background as I chased away all the shit over the last couple months and poured myself back into my life and work. When Lesley Gore sang out, “You don’t own me,” a few tears leaked. In my heart, I knew Wilde had been gone too long to be coming back. It was time to move on.
Late afternoon settled in. When I stepped back to take inventory of all the work that needed doing on the bike, my stomach growled. I glanced up at the clock. Half past four. I’d make a list of what I needed and stop by Doc’s to see if he would let me borrow his van the next day to run into Phoenix.
I had just closed the last drawer and shut off the music when I felt a rumbling through my boot soles. That feeling of thunder through the ground only came from one source—when an entire motorcycle club was riding out from or back into The Ridge. I grabbed a shop rag and headed for the door. The Ridge MC hadn’t ridden out in the morning, and it seemed odd that they’d be riding out this late. Outside, I clearly heard the rumbling approach town from the north, like the rare desert thunderstorm.
