“Nothing here for you,” the voice on the other end of the intercom says.
“Well, what do you have?” I ask instinctively. He knows it’s me. It wasn’t that long ago that he was trying to bargain my body for a baggie. The knee to his groin was memorable, I’m sure.
“Nothing for you.”
The rejection is a welcome relief, like it gives me permission to back out. I don’t want this, I really don’t. I’m just on autopilot. I don’t let myself wonder why he’s turning down a customer, and instead I take the steps two at a time and run toward the street. I push myself to run at a speed I can’t maintain and ignore the blaring car horns that sound as I haphazardly fly in front of evening traffic—well, what little traffic we get here in Fort Bragg.
Somewhere in the distance, a motorcycle revs its engine and closes in on me. Like the crazy-obsessed bitch that I am, I’m convinced it’s Ian and he’s going to pass me any minute. It’s unrealistic to think he’d be in this neighborhood at exactly this time. Even more unrealistic to think he’d stop and offer me a ride home. I don’t need it, but I’d take it because it’s him and I’ll do anything to get him to touch me. Even if it means swallowing the panic and ache that sets in when another person tries to offer me comfort. I wouldn’t know if I’d freak out if he were to touch me, though, since he never has, which is actually more painful than the running and the trying to score combined.
The guttural sound of the Harley closes in on me, pushing me to run faster. I round the block, and soon I’ve run so far that I’m back in the lush neighborhood that looks too perfect to be real. It is. I recognize two of the houses I pass. One belongs to a local teacher I’ve seen at my NA meetings in Willits, and the other belongs to one of Smirk’s best customers. Nothing’s perfect, I guess.
A landscaping truck pulls out in front of me suddenly, knocking me out of my reverie and sending me onto a lawn so pristine that it must cost a mint to maintain. The driver waves his hand apologetically but keeps going and zips away. I fight back the urge to yell at him about residential speed limits and instead stand from the grass and dust myself off.
Once the truck is around the bend in the road and has disappeared, I refocus my attention on picking up where I left off. Without the landscaper distracting me, I realize how loud the motorcycle is behind me. It’s practically deafening, sucking me in and swallowing me whole at the same time. I used to think Nic was nuts when she would know who was passing by on their bikes. Somehow, she could always tell the difference in the sounds of their engines. I thought she was nuts or it was one of those things you have to grow up with to understand, but I think I’m getting it now. I can’t explain why Ian’s bike sounds different, but it does somehow. The engine sounds darker, more menacing and, in a way, inviting than the others’ bikes. It doesn’t make any sense, and I might just be insane, but I swear I know the sound of his bike. It’s unique, just like the man himself.
Just to confirm my suspicions, I cast a glance over my shoulder at the approaching Harley. I expect to find Forsaken, of course, but someone I’m not very familiar with. I’m feeling all kinds of guilty and hopeful that it’s not actually Ian after all. He’d stop if he saw me in passing, wouldn’t he? He said he would always be here for me, didn’t he? Of course, he also said he wouldn’t disappear. Even if he did see me on the side of the road, would he even bother to slow down enough to wave?
None of my stupid worries or fantasies matter, though, because when I see the rider come into view, I gasp and turn around and take off running. Just barely, through the glare of the bike’s headlight, I see his light brown hair flowing freely from underneath his half helmet. It is Ian, and he looks pissed. Not that he doesn’t always look like something crawled up his ass, but there’s something in the hard set of his features that worries me. Most likely, it’s the guilt from almost fucking up my sobriety that’s got me so paranoid. I mean, he’s too far away to really be able to tell if he’s pissed or not. On further thought, yeah, I’m insane.