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I miss you too, worm.
His nickname for me had always been worm. It started when I was younger. It was rare that I wasn’t hiding behind a book, and he had always called me his little bookworm. Over the years, he had shortened it. Worm wasn’t the best pet name, but it was mine, and it had been given to me by the most important person in my life.
The wooden urn stared back at me from my dresser. Dad wanted his ashes spread over the Pacific, and while we should have done that before leaving Seattle, I wasn’t ready to let him go.
Soon.
That’s what I told myself every night before bed. I only hoped he wasn’t upset with me for not following through as soon as possible, but I had to believe he wanted to remain with me until I was ready to let go, and that wasn’t happening any time soon.
5 Aiken
I WAS SICK OF TEENAGEdouchebags coming to The Strip with their expensive cars, courtesy of their wealthy parents, spewing bullshit, and starting drama. I hadn’t meant to hit the young fuck, but he asked for it when he kicked my bike. Joking or not, you didn’t kick a man’s bike.
I knew once Joker jumped in with me, it was time to let up. I was trying to prove a point, but Joker didn’t know when to stop. He was a vicious motherfucker, and while he gave a shit about us boys, he felt nothing for anyone else. He was dangerous and would laugh in your face while he skinned you.
No shit.
I had seen him peel the skin from a fucker’s leg because the guy called him crazy.
After that drama and after feeling that fuck’s blood on my knuckles, I was done with the night. It was late, and I had a long day in the garage fixing up a bike Crow had taken as payment for some blow.
My buzz had long worn off, thanks to the little dickbag back at The Strip, and I was able to ride my bike home. We drove the long way home, buzzing through the city streets full of my worst memories instead of hitting the back roads. We wasted an hour riding and stunting, showing off for cars as we passed them. We didn’t get home until after three in the morning.
I turned into the driveway, the guys pulling in behind me, and I got off and pushed the garage door open since I was first in line. The sounds of our engines echoed in the garage when we pulled in, letting everyone in our hood know we were home.
I was exhausted and had a bike to fix the next morning, which meant I went straight to my room, peeled off my clothes, and fell into my bed. When my head hit my pillow, I was out. The day had been long, and the night had been hard.
I walked around after my run-in with the new girl at The Strip feeling like I had drowned a kitten. I didn’t give a shit about people’s feelings. I said and did what I wanted, but it was her fucking eyes.
Large and brown.
Innocent and hurt.
They haunted me in my dreams throughout the night, making me toss and turn. I woke feeling like shit and tired as hell. I downed two cups of a coffee and ate a Pop-tart before I finally started to feel human again.
My boy Jarvis sent his friend over with the fucked-up Ninja earlier than I was expecting, and he pulled it into the garage about the time I was starting to feel awake. I dove in, pulling it apart and checking everything. By the time noon came around, I was covered in grease and replacing his engine.
“It’s a shame what he’s done to that gorgeous machine,” Saint said, stepping into the garage in a pair of blue and orange Hawaiian shorts and eating a sandwich.
Koah Saint, one of my best friends and one of the few people who knew my entire story, had moved to Georgia from Hawaii the year before he turned thirteen. Before him, I had always envisioned life in Hawaii as a permanent vacation.
That wasn’t the case.
Saint had grown up in a shitty environment, just like the rest of us. His dad used to beat the fuck out of his mom and make him watch. When he was twelve, he sat in a chair and watched as his dad beat her to death. His dad was doing life in the pen, and he was shipped to live with his aunt, who wasn’t any better.
When I began to feel shitty about my childhood, I tried to remember others, like Saint, who had it worse.
“I know. I hate to give the motherfucker back to him. You shouldn’t ride if you don’t know how.”
“Amen, bruh,” he said, shoving the rest of his sandwich in his mouth.
“The new ink is finished?” I asked, pointing at his tattoo with my ratchet.
It was Polynesian design work and covered his entire right shoulder and bicep.
He grinned with his mouth full. “Shit looks good, right?”
I tossed my ratchet to the side and nodded my head. Opening my mouth to speak, I stopped when Joker came bursting into the garage.
