He nodded, that jolt through his chest coming again at her words. He had known the moment he saw Hope that she was it for him. And yesterday, when he touched Cassie, he had known, too. She was something important to his life.
Like Faith said, she mattered.
***
Sammy
“I wish you was at my game last night.” Sammy tipped his head back, looking up at the stars wheeling overhead. The granite at his back was cold and hard, chill from the stone seeping through the jacket he wore over an old jersey. “Wish you coulda been there.” He shifted, settling in, scooching his ass a little closer to the headstone.
“Jonny and Kane did good. You’d of been proud of ’em, Mama.” He sighed, eyes tracking the flight of a jet as it passed overhead, lights twinkling coldly against the blackness. Bodies packed in that tin can like sardines, every one of them headed towards their life, unaware of his silent observation of their passage.
“Daddy and Faith were there,” he said with a smile. “She sat up in the box nearly the whole game. You’d’ve laughed at Faynez leaning on the railing. She looks so much like Daddy when she does that.”
Arms propped on his knees, his hands were dangling, wrists loose and relaxed. A stark contrast from his posture last night, when he’d wound up seated, facing his opponents across the sheet. “I sin binned, Mama. Kane pissed me right off. I can’t even remember what he said now.” He glanced down, fingers stretching and flexing into a fist, seeing the bruising and swollen knuckles. “His head is so hard, it’s a wonder I didn’t bust a knuckle giving him the beatdown he deserved.”
Raising a hand to his face, he scrubbed his cheek, fingertips mapping tenderness there. “He mighta got a shot or two in hisownself.” Leaning over, he plucked a bottle from the ground where he’d tucked them upon arrival, fumbling a bit as he worked the lid open. Tipping it up, he took a long drink, pulling deeply at the beer. “Kane’s first game. Wanted to mark the event.” He gestured with the bottle towards his torso. “Dug out that old jersey. You ’member it? The one from the first game we went to see the Tridents play. Coach Spence pulled it out of the case, signed the back and put it on me himself. You laughed and laughed, because it hit me midshin.” He looked down, shrugging so his jacket fell open, seeing the team logo emblazoned on the front. “Fits a little better now.” He grinned and snorted, lips to the mouth of the bottle. “Hard to believe I made it, Mama. Everything you did for me, all our plans? I did it. Did it all.” Tipping up the bottle, he pulled at the beer again.
“Miss you, Mama.” He twisted so he could see the wording on the granite, fingertips tracing the etched letters. Beauty and Grace and Love. Then on the second line there were two words, these making his heart clench in his chest because for a kid growing up who didn’t have much, those words had meant everything. He had a mother who loved him beyond life itself and when they didn’t have anything else, they had each other and this oath of truth and trust. “No Lies” was his mother’s promise to him.
He finished that beer, pulling another bottle from the pile, feeling the cold a bit more acutely now. He belatedly thought about the thick blanket in his car, kept there for similar visits so his sister wouldn’t have to sit on the grass while she listened to his stories. She’d lean into him, lips tipped to the side in a grin so familiar it was like seeing his mother smile, all while he spun tales about Hope Rogers, their Mama.
“Hockey’s goin’ good. But you already knew that.” He tipped his head back again, the creak of his leather jacket a familiar accompaniment to the movement. “Faynez called early this morning. Said Daddy’s workin’ again. He’s found something he’s trying to capture. Said he worked through the night. It’s always good when he gets like this, brings out his happy. That’s good for her to see. Good for him, too.”
Finishing the second beer, he glanced over at the ones remaining and decided to not push his luck tonight. Sitting up, he rocked forward, wrapping his arms around his knees. “I gotta get goin’, Mama. Bus leaves early in the morning. We start a four-game trip. I’ll come see you when we get back.” Pushing to his feet, he gathered the bottles and bag, organizing everything in the cardboard carrier, hands moving without conscious thought. “Wish Daddy’d find someone who’d bring out his happy like you did.”
Straightening, he looked at the headstone and smiled, his voice gentle as he reminded her, “I love you.”
Ask for Tugboat
Cassie
Eyes fixed on the screen, she stared for a long moment in confusion at the multitude of makes and models before diving in to build her knowledge base. At her most comfortable in front of the screen, Cassie spent hours on the computer as she reviewed individual specifications and pricing. Online, no one could see or judge you, and sitting at her keyboard was second nature. Her research into motorcycles included in-depth lists and notes on maintenance, as well as detailed information on resell value. Since she had no idea what she was doing, she’d thought it at least prudent to understand what she would get out of the motorcycle if she had to turn around and resell it. At this point, it is still just research. She then laughed aloud at the fallacy. You’ve already moved money over from savings, woman. Stop lying to yourself.
Over the past few days, she had gone back and forth in her head, listing pros and cons of buying a motorcycle, especially when she didn’t know how to ride one. More cons than pros, as to be expected, but there were three things that stood out on that side of the paper. One was a repeat of her thoughts when she had seen Mr. Rogers ride away on his motorcycle: a solitary activity, but forced to be in the world.
Another pro was a memory of being a kid and standing in the back of the farm truck, holding with white-knuckled fists to the headache rack as her friends drove fast down a dirt road. The wind would whip her hair around her face, feeding the feeling of freedom found in that rush of air. Head back, eyes closed, she remembered the blinding flicker of sunlight through trees that lined the road, and the knowledge that the world was right there, not separated by a door or pane of glass.
The third was her views on letting fear stop her, because it was one of the things she hated most about her anxiety. Often it wasn’t an anxiety attack that drove her to stay home, behind her door, or sometimes hidden beneath her covers. No, the fear of an anxiety attack could be the biggest impediment to getting out. With people being one of the largest triggers, she’d already found her activities curtailed to what she’d recently deemed an unacceptable level as she unconsciously avoided situations that could set things off.
As she thought this through, it seemed that being afraid of learning to ride a motorcycle would be normal. It was a real fear that most people would have. And as such, it seemed to be something she could tackle. An expected fear of something physical could be surmounted by besting whatever it was, and she saw this as a way to give her a foothold on recovering ground lost to intangible ones.
Staring at the motorcycle on the screen in front of her, she lifted her chin. Picking up the phone, she called the number of the local store and waded through several automatic messages until she could press the appropriate corresponding number for sales. When a man finally answered, she was proud that her voice didn’t quaver when she announced, “Your website has what is generally accepted to be a good starter motorcycle for women for sale. If it’s still available, I’d like to buy it.”
An hour later she received confirmation from her bank that the couriered check had been signed for, and she clicked the button to upgrade her automotive insurance online. Two hours later, she had delivery set for the following day and was immensely glad her garage was two bays, so she didn’t have to decide what to do with her car. As easy as that, she owned a motorcycle. Now she just had to get through the night.
***
She had heard the bewilderment in the salesman’s voice when she arranged delivery, and he had tried to argue the point of signing for the motorcycle. But before making the call yesterday, she had written down how she wanted things
to go, so she had a script to refer to when he wanted to push back against what he’d seen as an unreasonable request. Now, today, this morning, she was waiting in the window seat overlooking the backyard, watching anxiously for the truck that would bring her new motorcycle home. “I bought a motorcycle,” she said, testing the words aloud, looking down at her twined fingers and laughing for the hundredth time at the ludicrousness of the statement.
A low rumble came through the windows, and when she turned to look outside again, she saw a motorcycle ridden by an older man coming up the street, followed by a truck with the dealer’s logo on the front door. After a moment, she realized he was riding her motorcycle to deliver it, and she gaped at the sight of the bike turning into her driveway. Belatedly, she hit the button for the garage door, watching through the window in the pass door as he rode it into the open space, making a quick three-point turn to park the machine facing out.
He dismounted and looked around as he pulled a sheaf of papers from inside his jacket. Seeing the envelope where she had laid it on the hood of her car, he stuffed the papers inside and then walked through the pass door, politely hitting the button on the doorframe to close the overhead door on his way through. It seemed only moments later she heard the letterbox on the front door rattle so she stood and made her way into the dining room. Nothing bad will happen. Tentatively approaching the door, she stooped and scooped the envelope from the floor, pulling out the delivery receipt notification. Quickly scribbling her name across the bottom, she shoved it back into the envelope and slipped it outbound through the letterbox.
Long, tan fingers came into view and plucked it from her hand. Cassie jerked back, startled at the nearness. “Ms. Williamson,” the man called, his voice pleasant, and she must have made a noise because he continued. “If you need anything, I wrote a phone number on the card attached to your paperwork. I can come show you how to check the oil, explain the gauges and switches, talk you through your first ride. You need anything, you call and ask for Tugboat, yeah?”
He didn’t wait for her response, and she stood frozen, listening to the sounds of his footsteps moving away.
Then she was alone in the house. Alone in the house, with a motorcycle in her garage.
Shaking her head, she sucked in a big breath and then blew it out slowly. “You did it,” she muttered and turned to walk upstairs.
Where she would stay for two days.
Because there was a motorcycle in her garage.
Every day is easier
Hoss
Standing in the workshop, he looked at what Woody had done and grinned. “Prettiest goddamned frame you’ve ever made me, man,” he told his patch brother. Lying on the workbench between them was a rectangle made from three different kinds of wood, the inlay worked so fine it was seamless. An odd shape, because the sketch was much more rectangle than the norm, and even though it wasn’t mounted in the frame yet, he could see it in his mind’s eye. The lightly stained cherry used to accent the corners of the frame would highlight the bright blonde of the woman’s hair, while the ash that was her hoodie would offset the deeper shades of the burled oak along each long edge. “Beautiful,” he said softly.
“Matches the piece, brother,” Woody told him, his voice whiskey-rough with decades of sucking down sawdust in his workshop, washed away by cheap scotch and beer. “Who is she? Can’t remember ever seein’ this one around.”
“Only seen her to speak to once, man. Made an impression.” With a tip of his chin, he thanked Woody again, and reached out to pick up the frame. If he could get this back home in time, he could still organize the delivery for today. Tamara wasn’t happy he had decided to give one of his highest-paying collectors a freebie, but she could wallow in her disappointment for all he cared.
Standing in the hallway of their home with phone in hand, he looked up as Faith came through the door. “Hey, Dad,” she called, dumping her tablet case next to the couch. “Oh, wow,” she said softly as she rounded the counter into the kitchen and caught sight of the framed piece lying on the table. “That worked up nice.”
Walking towards her, he agreed, “Yeah, it did, didn’t it?” He was proud of this piece, something he hadn’t felt in a while. Working in the studio was satisfying, creating his snapshots, capturing the feelings that moments evoked in him was something that kept him going. His craft allowed him to loosen the ties held by anger and grief, helping evolve those emotions into something that people could see and appreciate. That was nice, but the act of getting it out there where he could see it was the best. Hoss punched the button to dial a saved number and waited.
The framed sketch, however, was something different. He had made something for Cassie, even without knowing it at the time. After he had looked at the piece, and then studied the walls of his workspace, he knew it didn’t deserve to be sentenced to obscure invisibility. Didn’t warrant being allotted only the most minimal of attention. This drawing rated the care that Cassie gave every piece she owned. She would delve into it, find the right emotion to accent and articulate, and then she would make it more by doing what she had done to the other paintings and sketches. Make it more than he could do on his own.
“Barry,” he said when the call connected finally. “Isaiah.” He waited for the normal pleasantries to be finished, and then drove forward for the purpose of the call. “I have a delivery for that Miss Williamson. The lady who bought Endless Golden Beauty. When can you schedule the pickup?”
“Uh. She bought another piece? That’s awesome. I’ll call her and see when she wants it delivered. She’s…a little particular about timing.” Barry’s voice gave away the fact he was dancing around the difficulties that Cassie faced with them in her house, the same way he had done when Hoss had insisted on joining him for the previous delivery.
“No, she doesn’t know about this. I wanted it to be a surprise. A gift from me.” He smiled confidently because he understood exactly how much she would value the art.
He heard matching gasps of dismay, one from the phone and one from the kitchen beside him.
Faith said, “You can’t give her that picture of herself, Daddy.”
Barry said, “Boss, she doesn’t do surprises.”
Faith tugged at his arm and pulled his full attention to her. “Daddy, how well do you know her?”
“I’ll just give her a quick shout,” Barry said, and the call disconnected. Hoss gripped the phone tight, frustrated at the brushoff he hadn’t earned.
“When did you two first meet? At the last show? How long have you known her?” Faith’s questions didn’t make sense, but he couldn’t concentrate on her right now.
“Hold on a second, honey,” he said, hitting redial on the phone. “Crap,” he said when the tone indicated the line for the delivery company was busy. He hit redial again and Barry answered. Before the man could say anything other than “Hello,” Hoss told him, “Don’t contact her. I’ll find another way.” Then he hung up on Barry. Fuckwad.
Turning to Faith, he said, “What do you mean I can’t give it to her?”
“Daddy, did you look at it?” She paused, then continued, speaking slowly, “I mean…did you really see it?”
At her questions, he turned to the framed sketch again, eyes tracing over the lines and arcs, the whorls of dark and light that made up the drawing. Vulnerable and soft, the woman’s gaze was fixed on the man in the picture, his back to the viewer. Him. Cassie held her hopes and desires in her eyes, in her smile. His touch on her skin was possessive, tender in a way that told you the man cared deeply for her. This was a couple with a history of something good between them. Faith’s voice cracked when she said, “You can’t…that looks like you love her, Daddy. You can’t just surprise someone with that.”
He saw it, had surely known it when he was working on it. Knew what that emotion felt like, because it was something he saw in Faith’s face every day, different from what was in the sketch, but still love. His subconscious even knew it when he titled the piece, Decla
ration. What he saw in the sketch, what he had drawn there, was the kind of love he’d shared with Hope. Fuck.
“You’re right, Faynez,” he agreed softly, his hands reaching out for the edges of the frame, not willing to look at his daughter for fear of what he would learn from her expression. She made a distressed noise, and he shook his head, silencing whatever she’d been about to say. Throat tight, he told her, “I wasn’t thinking, baby.”
Without another word, he gathered up the frame and walked to the studio, adding the piece to one of the stacks leaning against the wall. He stood for a moment and stared at the beauty of the drawing framed in the work of love Woody had made, then turned his head, looking away. What the fuck were you thinking, old man?
After dragging a drape over the canvases, he twisted to look at the other sketches he had done of her. There were a dozen studies tacked to the working wall near an easel where he had begun a canvas using oil. It was his memorized view of her from the showing, in part profile, part silhouette, all beauty. In this scene, the painting she was looking at unremarkable, but her figure was vibrant, filling the canvas with life.
Drawn to it, unable to help himself, he picked up his palette, eyes on the unfinished painting as he squeezed additional pigment onto the board. Tipping his head to one side, he reached for a clean brush, dipped it into the paint and stroked the color onto the canvas.
***
Cassie
She woke, a scream trapped in her throat, feeling the stare of someone watching her, tracking her movements in the bed. Eyes tightly shut, she had a child’s belief that if she couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see her. She knew who it was, knew their voices if not their names, heard the hushed whispers, fierce grunts as they tore her world apart. Get out, get out, get OUT! Shrieked in her head, the words had no more effect than the night she had uttered them aloud.
Rebel Wayfarers MC Boxset 4 Page 68
