“Yeah?” I ask as Mireya sighs and lights up, moving away from the scene of the crime and towards a pack of shirtless dudes that are hovering a little too close to her bike. She doesn't like to get involved in my altercations. Not to say that there are a lot, but I have been known to start some trouble. “Something wrong, gingersnap?” I ask the lady as she removes her hat and reveals a head of scruffy, orange curls. I'd have pegged her as Amy's mama, but there's no way these two are that closely related. Amy has that long, soft hair that's perfect for pullin'. When I see her glance up at me with a pained expression, I just want to reach out and wrap it around my fist, tug her to me and take those sexy lips between my teeth until she cries my name.
“Excuse me!” the old lady snorts as she waves the black can in my face. I don't flinch. These old Southern broads are tough as leather, and I am in no way ready to take on a lady whose blood runs with the fire of the sun and the earth, no ma'am. “But you need to keep your hands to yourself. If I see you touching my niece again, I might feel the need to call the sheriff and give him a piece of my mind. It's bad enough that we have to put up with your people year after year, but that doesn't give you the right to harass my family!” I take a deep breath and try to control my anger. If Old Lady Gingersnap had been a man, I'd have decked her. As things stand, she's a pretty old thing with firecracker eyes and a sharp tongue. A little respect can go a long way, provided it's applied in all the right places.
“You're right,” I say to her, although my eyes are all for Amy. I don't think she knows how hot she looks in that little sweater. If it were up to me, I'd tear it right off her shoulders, slam her against this wall and show her a real good time. Amy looks like she's in need of some fun. Her neck is stiff and her eyes dart every which way, so she doesn't have to look at me. She isn't scared. Oh no, not this little lovely. She's excited. I can practically smell her excitement, her curiosity. This is a girl that's been dying to get out for awhile, and it's just a matter of time until she snaps. Maybe I could help her along a little? “I had no right to touch Miss Amy here. If you'll accept my deepest apologies.” I reach out and grab Old Lady Gingersnap's hand, pressing it to my lips for a kiss. She blushes, but she doesn't spray me with her can which is a whole other sort of euphoric. There is nothing worse than getting sprayed in the face with that shit. “I'd like to make it up to poor Miss Amy by taking her out tonight.”
“I already gave you my answer,” Amy hisses as she drops her hand and takes a deep breath like she's preparing for trouble. Her blue eyes finally lock onto my face and hold my gaze without flinching. There's a whole lot more to sweet, little Amy than first meets the eye. She's telling me yes, but she's telling her auntie no. Smart girl. I'm not usually the type of guy that aunties approve of. They want to fuck me, maybe, but they don't approve. Nuh uh. “Come on, Megan,” she says to her aunt who has finally tucked her pepper spray away with a sigh. “Let's go before Jodie has a fit.” Amy starts to turn away, but she keeps her eyes on mine until the last possible second. When she finally tears them away, I have an almost physical reaction to chase after her. How fucking strange is that?
“First time I've seen you beat down by an old lady,” Mireya says as she returns as quickly as she left. I wouldn't say she's the jealous type, but maybe she can tell that I like Amy. A lot. And I have no clue why.
“Well,” I say as I pop a cigarette into my mouth and take Mireya into my arms. “You've never been up against an Old Gingersnap like that. You're from up North, so you have no idea what these Southern ladies are like.”
“Oh?” she asks as she leans in and kisses my neck. “And you don't think I'm a tough bitch? Why don't you let me prove it to you?” I tangle my fingers in her hair and pull her head back, so I can get a good look at her. Oh yeah. Mireya is hot, no doubt about it. Why the fuck then, am I thinking about Amy Cross when I start to kiss her?
My aunt and I walk silently back to the bridal shop, pausing just outside the door so Megan can get herself under control. She's so angry that her face is as red as the prize tomatoes she grows in her front yard.
“Amy … ” she begins, and the sweat that's running down my back in little rivulets turns icy cold.
“Don't tell Mama,” I say, disgusted at the sound of my own voice. Don't tell Mama? I'm old enough to walk right through the doors of the only bar in town and order a drink with a dirty name. Why do I care what my mother thinks? The problem is, however, that I do. I do care.
Aunt Megan sighs and runs her hand through her red-orange curls. She seems more than just angry, almost … flustered? I blink at her and wonder if she's feeling the same tingle over her skin that I am. The man is a witch. I try to glance surreptitiously down the street, so I can catch another glimpse of him. Of Austin. He's nowhere to be seen. I try not to feel disappointed and focus back on my aunt who's adjusting her sun hat and pinching her tiny lips into a thin, straight line.
“There's a reason your father preaches against this event,” Aunt Megan says, and I try not to sigh with relief. I can tell by her muted tones that she isn't going to say a word to my mother. “Just remember, you were raised in God's house.” I nod, unsure as to what that statement has to do with the current situation and put a pretend smile on my face.
“Thanks, Aunt Megan,” I tell her as she sniffs and her eyes slide down the sidewalk. She notices me noticing her and stuffs her pepper spray back in her purse, grabbing my wrist and turning away to drag me into the bridal shop.
I hear my cousin, Jodie, before I see her.
“I am so fat!” she wails, and I have to try my best to keep my expression neutral. In all reality, I want to shake my cousin and scream at her, You're not fat; you're pregnant because you and Kyle were both too embarrassed to buy condoms from the drugstore.
“Jodie, honey,” my aunt coos, gliding into the room and taking over for my mom who steps away from Jodie and shakes her hand out, like maybe my cousin was squeezing it too hard. She looks at me curiously but doesn't say a thing. I smile at her and take a seat in one of the orange plastic chairs that surround the mirror my cousin is now fixated on, turning this way and that, examining her changing body with critical eyes. In all reality, she's probably still a size four which is hardly fat. I say nothing, waiting patiently for my cousin to notice me and declare that I'm going to be wearing a fuchsia taffeta monstrosity. After all, I'm her one and only bridesmaid, so it's only fitting that I look terrible.
“I hate my life,” Jodie groans, slumping to the dirty blue carpeting of the shop like a sack of old potatoes. The corner of my mouth twitches, but I force it back to stillness. My father once said that he was lucky to have a daughter like me: quiet, passive, and calm. He said I was like the lake on a summer day, no wind, no rain, no clouds. No fun, I think as my mind goes straight back to Mr. Motorcycle. There is no way I could go out with him, not even if I wanted to. Especially if I wanted to. The night would only end badly when he realized that the most exciting experience of my life was when I had my tonsils removed in the sixth grade. That's even assuming that I could get out of the house without my parents wanting to know where I was going and why and when I was going to be back and all other such nonsense.
I sigh.
Jodie pauses her self-deprecating diatribe to glance over at me, sniffling and wiping at her blue eyes with the back of her hand. Her hair is coiffed atop her head, looking like a cinnamon bun, all curled up on itself and she really does look quite pretty in the strapless white gown she's dirtying on the floor with her fit. We stare at one another for a moment before she breaks out into a sniffling smile, gathers the crinkled fabric in her hand and stands up.
“Amy,” she says, puffing her chest out like a peacock. “I have something to show you. At least someone will look skinny and pretty at my wedding.” I watch as she glides across the floor and pauses next to an eighties inspired dress in … fuchsia. I hate being right sometimes.
Jodie yanks the dress from the rack and spins around. The turquoise bows on the hips fl
ap like wings. No. I swallow hard and smile.
“It's pretty.”
Jodie squeals and practically throws the dress at me.
“Try it on!” she says, clapping her hands and pausing to fix her hair in the mirror, pouting her lips and blinking her eyelashes. Jodie only says she thinks she's fat and ugly; she's actually quite narcissistic. I stand up, the monstrosity dangling from my hands in taffeta and satin, and try not to gag. I try to distract myself by fantasizing about Adam and the other book boyfriends, but end up thinking about Mr. Motorcycle again. If, by some miracle of God, you were able to sneak out and meet this Austin guy, what would you even wear?
“Do you need help getting into it?” my mother asks, as if I'm incapable of zipping up a dress by myself. I shake my head and disappear behind the curtains in the back. I hang the dress up on the hook that's screwed crookedly into the wall and wonder if Mrs. Hall, the owner, knows what the words pride of ownership mean. I slip off my shoes, so it looks like I'm actually doing something back here and snatch a few more paragraphs in my book, sliding it quietly out of my purse and holding it in one hand while I slip my sweater off my right shoulder with the other.
“You can't leave me here, writhing in blissful agony forever,” I whisper to Austin.
I pause and shake my head, reread the sentence over again.
“You can't leave me here, writhing in blissful agony forever,” I whisper to Adam.
Oops. I'm starting to project Mr. Motorcycle into my book. Not good. I absolutely cannot go out with him tonight. It would only end up with me adding another name to my list of fantasy lovers, only this one would be a real person. And he'd only be in town for the week. Unlike Adam and Daniel and Micah who I could visit anytime I wanted, Austin was a temporary fixture.
“I texted Kyle this morning, and he hasn't responded. You don't think he's cheating on me, do you?” Jodie begins to whine as I sit down on the single bench in the changing area and let my mind go. It gets swallowed up by the book in just a few short sentences and suddenly, I'm no longer here, I'm there. Don't you just love reading?
“I can't stay,” he whispers back, cupping my chin and tilting my face up to his. Our lips brush gently and my heart spirals down into my belly. Why, after all the wonderful nights we've spent together, does he want to leave me? I should have known not to trust a man I met in a bar.
“But how come? You're not being honest with me, are you?” Adam laughs bitterly and turns away for a moment. When he glances back at me, his eyes are hot and full of passion.
“What if I gave you one last night to remember me by?” he says and then without waiting for an answer, shoves me into the wall and lifts up my skirt, positioning his hard cock against my opening. I try to protest, but –
But someone is trying to peek inside the curtain. I quickly shove the book under my sweater (being careful not to wrinkle the cover) and rip my shirt off, so that I've got nothing covering my top half expect for my very tasteful, very dull, laceless, nude bra.
“Is everything alright in here?” my mother asks, smiling at me with her mouth but not her eyes. These remain irritated and keep flicking back to Jodie like maybe Mama wants to slap her as much as I do.
“Fine,” I say, and she retreats as quickly as she came. I sigh, certain that my cousin's whimpering will cover up the sound, and stand up. My skirt drops to the floor in a pool of cream fabric and leaves my very tasteful, very dull, laceless, nude panties open for the mirror to grab and reflect back at me. I turn towards it and stare at my pointy chin, my round eyes, my gently parted lips. I don't look twenty-one, I think as I drop a strap of my bra over my shoulder and try to make a sexy face in the mirror. Sixteen, maybe? My hot-lady face actually makes me look grotesque, so I stop doing it and throw my bra to the floor before grabbing the eighties dress and throwing it on before I can convince myself not to.
“Oh my God!” Jodie squeals as I step out from behind the curtain and convince myself to smile as my cousin takes my hand and spins me in a slow circle. “You look absolutely stunning!” I look like a deranged Malibu Barbie.
“Thanks,” I say blandly, my voice as colorful as a bowl of my father's cornflakes. My mother and I manage to lock eyes, and I can see that she knows I'm uncomfortable in the dress. I'm sorry, she mouths, much the same way as she does when I get caught in one of my father's lectures like a fly in a web. And, in that same fashion, she does nothing to help me out.
Jodie quickly tires of me and goes back to flinging dresses across the metal racks with a horrid screeching sound that makes my teeth hurt. I glance toward the front window of the shop longingly, watching the people pass by in their leather and their chains and their inked skin. Some glance into the shop, but their eyes pass right over me, eighties dress and all.
I stand there, and I will something to happen, anything. Maybe a motorcycle could come flying through the window? Or maybe a fight could break out outside, something with tire irons and lots of grunting and cursing? Or maybe Austin could walk by and give me another glimpse of those taut muscles, sweat running down the lines of his biceps, dripping to the cement and sizzling? I sigh again and tap Jodie on the shoulder.
She spins to face me with a bewildered look in her eyes, like maybe she forgot I was there, too.
“I think I'm going to take the dress off,” I say. “Wouldn't want to ruin it before the big day.”
Without waiting for her response, I start to turn away.
And then I see him.
Standing in the window.
I see Mr. Austin Motorcycle.
I stare at him for a long, long time, wondering if it's my imagination (I have a very vivid one, thank you very much) or if he's really there.
Austin grins, nice and big, flashing me beautiful teeth in an otherwise crooked mouth, one that has a teeny, tiny scar on his right side, making it pinch a bit when he mouths something at me. I don't respond; I just stare. I stare and I stare and I stare. I do that for so long that my aunt, my cousin and my mama all turn to grab a look-see.
Just as I'd imagined, Austin has sweat running down his forehead and his arms, coaxed from his skin by the summer sun, glinting bright in the early afternoon light. I try not to stare at a drip that slides down the bridge of his nose and hangs there, tantalizing somehow. I shiver and shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts and get a hold of myself. I blink, and when I open my eyes, Austin is gone.
The bells that hang from the front door jingle, and I have to quell a mixture of fear and excitement.
He's coming inside.
Oh my fucking stars, little Amy Cross, I think as I walk into the bridal shop and pause with my hands on my hips and a smirk on my face. I can't help it; she looks so damn cute in her ugly, purple dress.
“Hey, beautiful,” I say, catching a glimpse of Mireya outside the front window. Course she followed me over here. I stopped mid-kiss to walk my ass down the block and find out where the hell I'm supposed to meet this girl tonight. Guess that thought sort of slipped my mind earlier. Maybe I was too focused on those big, round eyes and those full lips that she tugs between her teeth at the slightest provocation, the ones that tell me there's no way this girl is as angelic as she looks.
“Excuse me?” some lady asks from my left. I glance over at her. Oh boy, there's the mama, I think as I take in the brown hair, the heart-shaped face, the puckered lips. “Who are you?” Mama looks horrified. I smile and reach up to tip my imaginary hat; manners are so much easier with a fucking hat.
“'Scuse me, ma'am,” I say, and I turn my gaze back to Amy who's tilted her head to the side, hair falling in a silken wave over her shoulder. She looks a bit dumbstruck and if I'm honest with myself, so am I. What the hell you doing down here, Austin Sparks? Shit. If you didn't look like a dumb ass before, you sure do now. I do my best to come up with a lie on the spot. Sadly, I'm pretty damn good at those. The words fall from my mouth like God's honest truth. “I meant to give Miss Amy here a brochure, just in case she was serious about her offer.�
� I'm trying to be subtle here, but when I see Amy cringe, I know that I've fucked up royally. I wet my lips and pull out the wrinkled brochure that's stuffed in my back pocket.
Old Lady Gingersnap is slowly reaching for her purse, no doubt getting ready to spritz me in the face, and there's some skinny chick in a wedding gown gazing at me with watery eyes and trembling lips. I snatch a pen from the jar on the counter and scribble down the name of the bar that's across the street from my hotel.
“You can find me here if you still want to buy the bike.” I move towards Amy slowly, trying my best not to spook her family. They're all staring at me like I'm a ghost or some shit, watching me with guarded expressions and twitching fingers. I hate to say it, but these ladies need to get out more. If they think I'm scary, they should meet Beck; he'd really put their panties in a wad.
Amy takes the brochure from me with a steady hand and finds my eyes with hers, drawing me into that face, those lips, that pale, pretty skin. Shit, damn, and fuck, this girl has got me hooked hard. I let my fingers graze hers and can't help the smile that crawls across my mouth when she shivers.
“Bike?” the Mama is asking in a high, shrill voice that tells me I've really worn out my welcome. I tip my imaginary hat again, toss Amy a wink and hightail it out of there before I get the cops or the clergy called on my ass.
Mireya doesn't look happy.
“What the fuck was that about?” she asks, swinging her dark hair over one shoulder and pinching her red, red lips so tight that the skin on her face puckers. I shrug my shoulders since I really don't know the answer to that question.
“We never discussed where to meet.”
“That's not what I meant.”
I pause at the edge of the sidewalk and glance up at the sun. Shit, it's hot down here.
Losing Me, Finding You Page 2
