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Childhood trauma was hard to shake and if her father used handcuffs as a babysitter he might’ve also locked her in the dark somewhere.
“Guessing I don’t have much choice,” she muttered.
“Sadly, no. Sorry to say it, but that’s how it is. I’ll make it as quick and easy as possible for you.”
“Okay,” she said softly. “I trust you.”
And for some reason, those words and the way she said them sank in slowly and landed with some weight to them.
So my reply also held weight. “I appreciate that, baby.”
***
She got through it and now we were running our gear into the house. I hauled in the cooler and we both ferried in the half a dozen food store bags, setting everything on the dining table to the right inside the door. The Valentines called it a cabin, but it was a house, a decent-sized one. When you walked in, the right side was the kitchen, and the left side of the spacious bungalow had the family room. The place had a hallway going straight back with a bedroom, towel cupboard, and bathroom on the left, two more bedrooms on the right, plus stairs to the finished basement which I already knew was set up with a couple couches and a long bar.
“I’ll run out and bring the rest of our gear in. You wanna take care of puttin’ the food away?”
“Sure,” she replied. “Need the little girl’s room just quick, though.”
I gestured to where it was, explained Jojo’s room was directly across the hall from it, and went back outside to grab more stuff.
She was still in the bathroom when I dropped her bags on the bed in Jojo’s room before going back out to the truck for mine. I put that stuff in the bunkbed room, which was beside the bathroom, diagonal from the room she’d be sleeping in. I remembered her guitar was still out there so went back out to get that and my phone, which was charging inside the truck.
When I lifted the tonneau cover over the bed of my pickup to get deep enough to reach the guitar, that brown leather journal was sitting beside the guitar bag, open. It must’ve slid out of her bag of clothes.
In neat, curly handwriting done in purple marker, I read the inside cover.
Want equal rights? Don’t fuck a biker.
Want safe and predictable? Do not fall for a biker.
Want wind in your hair, fire in your soul, and a man’s fingerprints on your body, marking you as his and only his, to be protected and treasured forever?
Don’t accidentally become a club bunny.
-Gianna Grace Jones
I frowned. She had underlined his and only his. Sharply. Angrily.
I flipped a page over to more handwriting, again in purple pen, though this time light purple that sparkled.
When the pain wants to cleave you in two.
When the love and hopes have slipped away from you.
When the nicks of a blade no longer help you remember to feel, no longer remind you that you’re still real… still here…
It hurts.
It stings.
It’s terrifying.
Soul destroying.
Because what if the music finally turns flat and you can’t get it back?
And the mirror says your eyes don’t look the same. Because for years all you’ve felt is shame.
At some point it sinks in past the numbness that you have mostly yourself to blame.
Seems the world won’t ever cut you some slack.
You ponder if it’s best if everything fades to black.
I was about to flip the page when I heard the screen door slam, then her voice. “So quiet and pretty here. I could totally live here. Ooh, we should have a campfire. Look at all that wood!”
I snapped the book shut and peered over my shoulder.
Her smile withered as she took in what I was looking at. Now she wore a look of betrayal. And the sight of not just that look on her face, but the way it came over her face – starting with a carefree smile that became that – it hit me square in the fuckin’ chest.
Then fire sparked in her eyes as she stormed the rest of the way to me and ripped the book out of my hand.
“I can’t believe this!” she accused.
“Gigi…”
“You fucking asshole!” she leaned in. “I told you that was personal!”
“It was wide open back there. I only saw-”
“You had no right!” She stabbed her finger toward me with accusation, then grabbed the guitar from me and stormed into the cabin. The door slammed.
Fuck.
I lit a cigarette and did a walkaround outside, checking on things. I took my time, giving her time.
Before heading in, I phoned Deke.
“Yo Prez, we’re here,” I said, massaging my forehead. “How’s things?”
“All good here, Jesse. What about with you two?”
“All good. I’ll check in again tomorrow.”
“Yeah? All good?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled.
“Don’t sound good, brother.”
“Women,” I muttered.
He chuckled. “Can’t live with ‘em without a headache, don’t wanna live without ‘em. So headaches it is.”
