by K. Ryan
Marcus was on my ass about stepping up and all I'd been able to do was just swear everything was fine, that I was over "whatever bug crawled up my ass", as Marcus had so tactfully put it. There would be no heart to hearts, no therapy sessions with my club president, and I had no one to blame for that but myself.
Having anyone question my loyalty to the club was right at the top of the list of what I wanted to avoid like the plague and now I had to man up to prove my commitment. Which, unfortunately, meant I needed to quit hitting the bottle so hard. Which, unfortunately, also meant I couldn't drink myself into oblivion until I passed out anymore. It was the only thing that really helped me sleep and until now, I'd honestly thought it went unnoticed for the most part.
Funny how that worked itself out.
So I needed to be careful and I needed to show my brothers that I was turning a corner, that things were sliding back into place, and everything was normal again. The problem with that, though, was I wasn't turning myself around—at least not really.
While every day did get a little bit easier, that didn't mean I didn't wake up at night in a panic, drenched in sweat. That didn't mean the heaviness in my body was any lighter or that the open, gushing flesh wound was any closer to scarring over.
I wasn't better. I wasn't over it. And I just couldn't forget.
I hated it.
No amount of drunken nights with some random girl in my bed would ever get me there. I knew that. I just had to pretend like it was all water under the bridge, like I was glad to finally be rid of her, like I was better off without her.
Whenever things got hard, I tried repeating Isabelle's words in my head: if she really wanted to be with me, she would've moved heaven and earth to make it happen. That helped a little bit, but not enough. Maybe in a few more months, if I had a little more time, I'd be able to take that more to heart. But right now, the anguish in my chest just wouldn't dissipate.
In a brief moment of weakness, my fingers itched for a bottle of Jack. It would definitely take care of my sleep problem in a half hour, if not sooner. But even one pull from the bottle now would feel like a betrayal to the promise I'd made to my club. I briefly considered grabbing the first girl I could find in the clubhouse, but shook it from my mind. As soon as the deed was done, I would just be alone again and I'd probably just feel more alone after than before.
Well, I figured, if I wasn't going to sleep, I might as well ride.
The cool night air swept around me, clinging to my skin, pulsating into my pores, and re-energizing my senses. My Street Glide had never failed me before and she flew eagerly from street to street until I felt like I'd circled the entire landscape of Claremont two times over.
The haziness swallowing me up in the clubhouse was long gone and a clear focus, something that felt almost like calm, spread through my mind. Breath came in and out more easily than before.
I didn't want to think anymore. I didn't want to feel anymore. I just wanted to be present in the here and now.
But when my Glide rested at the stoplights right in front of Aimee's Diner, I almost fell right off my bike. My eyes landed on the lone black Trans Am parked off to the side first and then, scanning through the windows, rested on Isabelle, who was sitting in a booth, hunched over something on the table. A grin tugged at my lips and I had a pretty good idea what she was doing all hunched over like that.
Working.
Fascination didn't quite cover the emotion I felt whenever I watched her work.
It wasn't too often she'd sacrifice conversation at lunch in order to sketch in her notebook, but when it happened, I just sat back and watched in silent amazement. The fluid lines she produced and the stark, luminous images flitting across the page were nothing short of extraordinary. The level of raw talent it took to do something like that was something I would never be able to understand. So, for lack of being able to do anything remotely helpful, I just shut up and let her work.
But tonight was a different story. Tonight we were technically supposed to be sleeping because we both had to work the morning shift at the shop tomorrow. I couldn't imagine she made it a regular habit of working at Aimee's, especially since she'd basically been fired from there and especially since it was the middle of the night.
Something had to be up.
And what kind of guy would I be if I didn't go in and at least have a cup of coffee with her?
I was still grinning when I parked my bike right next to her car. As the door chimed behind me, my eyes flew right to the lone figure sitting a few booths away, lost in her own little world. The noise seemed to shake her out of wherever it was she went when she was working and she blinked in shock for a few seconds.
"What up, Iz," I called out to her as I approached her booth.
"What are you doing here?" she asked with a laugh.
"I could ask you the same question."
By now, I was hovering right in front of her table, but I didn't want to just assume I'd get an invitation to sit down. She seemed pretty settled here with her half-empty coffee cup, untouched piece of peanut butter pie, and her stuff spread out all over the table and I honestly didn't come in to bother her.
"Couldn't sleep," she shrugged easily. "I'm guessing you're in the same boat, huh?"
I just nodded, a touch of a smile lifting my lips. "Want some company?"
"Sure," she murmured softly, half-standing to clear some of her clutter from the table. As she grabbed her oversized purse from the table and set it over on her side, I slid in across from her.
"So," Isabelle started quietly. "Are you in the mood for some peanut butter pie? Once I got going here, I kinda forgot about it even though I am on my third cup of coffee."
I didn't need to be told twice and immediately reached for the plate. "Absolutely, Iz."
"Coffee?" she gestured towards the empty cup to my right. When I nodded, my mouth too full of peanut buttery awesomeness, she poured me a cup with a smirk.
"Do I want to know why you're out on the prowl tonight? Or...wait, if you just finished up with some girl at the clubhouse, I'm not sure I want to hear about it," she crinkled her nose a little as she spoke and if I didn't know her better, I would've thought her tone was a little harsh.
Good thing I did know her well enough to recognize sarcasm in her voice when I heard it.
"I'm trying this whole bein' sober thing," I grinned back at her. "Shocking, right?"
"Who knew you'd grow up to be so responsible?" she shot back and she bit her lip to keep from laughing.
"Gotta grow up sometime, I guess," I replied good-naturedly.
"Well," she smiled softly. "If it helps, I'm glad you're not face down in a gutter somewhere."
"I'd much rather be here with you, darlin'," I winked.
She just rolled her eyes and tossed an empty sugar packet at me. I gestured down to the open notebook and forced myself not to peek at, careful to respect her privacy and her space.
"Whatcha workin' on over there?"
She looked back at me sharply and then her expression shifted from surprised to confused to tired and finally rested on forlorn. I didn't have it in me tonight to even begin to understand what any of that meant or what my words had to do with anything. It was almost midnight and we should really be in bed.
Mind outta the gutter, Sawyer.
Separate. In different beds. Sleeping. Nothing else.
"Oh," she answered finally. "Nothing all that important really. I was trying to figure out some stuff, but that didn't work out too well."
"Alright, so when do I get to commission something?"
She frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Well," I shrugged as I shoveled another bite of pie into my mouth. "I figured you're gonna be rich and famous someday, so I better get an Isabelle Martin original while I can still afford it."
"Aw," she called out in a sing-song voice. "You called me Isabelle."
I wagged my fork at her. "Don't get used to it."
"Okay," she leaned for
ward a little more. "So, say you were to actually commission something. What would you want?"
That one was easy.
"My bike. Definitely. I can already see her..."
Isabelle's shoulders shook with laughter. "Wait a minute, wait a minute. Did you just refer to your motorcycle as a she?"
I blinked back her. "Uh. Yeah. That's what she is. She's beautiful and she's perfect and if you so much as say a bad word about her, I'm gonna get up from this table right now and I won't ever talk to you again."
Her hand covered her mouth to muffle her laughter. "Whoa, buddy. Simmer down. I promise," she made a cross sign over her heart, "I won't say anything bad about her."
All she got from me for that was an eye roll.
"I mean, you'll really do it, right?"
She was still laughing. "Well, sure."
"Do I still have to pay you?" I murmured in a low voice.
"Hmm...pay for the coffee and get me another piece of pie and I think we're square."
"Deal!" I thumped my fist on the table for good measure.
Isabelle just laughed with a wide grin on her face and for a moment, I felt frozen by how happy she looked. If I could just get a little of that, feel a little of what she was feeling right now, maybe I could get one step closer to actually feeling like a normal human being. But then again, every time I was with her, it was easy to forget everything else and just laugh and talk and just be normal.
"So," I cleared my throat. "What brings you here in the middle of the night other than the fact that you can't sleep?"
She was quiet for a moment and when her eyes flicked back up to mine, my chest tightened at the pain radiating in them.
"I guess I just...I just really missed my mom tonight," she murmured, staring into her coffee cup.
I nodded. That was a feeling I knew all too well. Something told me there was a little more going on, but didn't see the point in pushing her. I didn't want to overstep or make her any more upset than she already was, but this? Feeling the sting, the heart-wrenching loss of losing a parent...this was something I might actually be able to help her with.
"You know," I started cautiously. "It's still hard for me walk into the clubhouse everyday and not wonder where he'd be—where I'd be—if my dad was still alive and kicking. Sometimes, when I'm on the lot, I can almost see him in the shop, workin' on a truck or pickin' me up to take me for a ride. I guess it doesn't get any easier, but it helps to remember those things, you know? The little things, the good things, even if it sucks sometimes, because I guess that's all you have left, you know?"
Her eyes glimmered with something I couldn't quite put my finger on and I wondered if maybe I'd said too much or maybe not enough. It was always hard to tell with her. Sometimes, I felt like I knew exactly what she was thinking and other times...
"That's funny," she shook her head with a sad smile. "Because sometimes when I walk past our kitchen counter I have these flashbacks of when I was five and I remember racing home everyday after kindergarten to watch Dirty Dancing. I know, great parenting, right?"
A grin tugged at my lips as I chuckled with her. It was good to hear her talk this way, especially since the only time she'd really spoken of her mom was the night I'd completely lost my shit in front of her, and I knew, from firsthand experience, that she probably needed to talk about her mom more than she did.
"So, this one day," she continued softly. "I must have done something really bad—I mean really naughty—to make my mom this mad. I still have no idea what I did. Funny how that works, right? But I remember her being so mad she was just red all over—I mean furious with rage—and she takes my Dirty Dancing tape...you know the good ol' VHS ones? And she takes the tape, lifts it over her head all dramatic, and then smashes it into the counter right in front of me."
We were both shaking with laughter now.
"Oh, I cried and cried and cried. I couldn't believe she actually did it! And I wouldn't come out of my room for the rest of the night because I was so mad at her. So then the next day, when I finally came down for breakfast, there was a brand new Dirty Dancing tape there waiting for me on the kitchen counter."
"Wow," I chuckled. "She must have felt pretty shitty to get you another copy like that."
"Yeah," she nodded with a grin. "Well, of course, I had to promise never to do whatever it was I did again in order to get it and she promised never to smash my stuff again."
I wiped my eyes from laughing so hard and shook my head. "I never pegged you for such a problem child."
"What can I say?" she shrugged. "I'm just full of surprises."
She didn't know the half of it.
"So..." I racked my brain for something else to talk about, sensing the need for a change in topic. "Tomorrow night, huh?"
The grin slid off her face and I knew I'd just made a huge mistake.
"Yeah. Tomorrow night. Can you promise me one thing though?" she pleaded quietly.
"What's that?"
"Can you please just try to be nice?"
I scoffed and rolled my eyes. "What makes you think I won't be nice?"
"Really?" she stared back at me pointedly. "Do I really need to explain it to you? Look, I would really, really appreciate it if you guys could try to get along."
"Alright, alright," I conceded, throwing my hands up in the air. "Fine. But only because you asked so nicely, Iz. Don't think I'm doing it for that dickhead."
"Nice, Caleb," she snorted. "Real nice."
"What?"
She just shook her head and poured a little more sugar into her coffee cup.
"So," I pressed on because this time, I needed the change in topic. "What do you have on the agenda for the rest of your night, huh?"
"Oh, I don't know. I'll probably just go home and have a movie marathon or something like that. That'll probably help me fall asleep."
My eyebrows shot up at this new piece of information—just another fascinating piece of the puzzle.
"Oh really? And what, exactly, does a movie marathon with you entail?"
"Probably Star Wars," she just shrugged. "I'm kinda in the mood for something that's gonna take me far, far away if you know what I mean."
"Seriously?" I shook my head in disbelief. "You like those movies?"
"Like them? Are you kidding? Who doesn't like them? I think I was Princess Leia for Halloween every year until I was like, 14."
I pointed to myself with a smirk. "You're lookin' at your Han Solo, darlin'. Well, actually, I switched between Han Solo and Indiana Jones, but I loved playing with that toy gun more than anything."
"Yeah, I could see that," she grinned, splaying her hands out on the table in excitement. "I can see you already with the belt and those high boots...wow, I can't wait to drill your mom for those pictures tomorrow at work."
My mouth dropped open. "You wouldn't."
"Wanna bet?"
"Shit. Okay, okay, forget I ever said anything. Jesus," my mind was scrambling now to her to forget about those incriminating pictures. "Favorite movie?"
Her eyes crinkled up in deep thought and I could practically see the wheels in her head turning.
"Hmm, I don't think I can choose just one. I mean, there are just so many..."
"Okay, fine. I'll make it easy. Top five?"
"Nah," she shook her head fiercely. "I don't think I could even do that, but if it helps, I think I could watch any Quentin Tarantino movie any day, any time."
"So you're a bad motherfucker, then, huh?" I grinned widely, wiggling my eyebrows at her suggestively.
"You know it, but I think I'd rather have a royale with cheese."
I barked out a laugh before shoveling in another huge forkful of pie into my mouth. "I think this pie might be better than that."
Isabelle's eyes lit up at the mention of her long-forgotten pie and she snatched up her unused fork and practically dove across the table to plough it into what was left of the pie. Still shaking my head, I motioned for the restaurant's lone waitress on duty and o
rdered another slice and another pot of coffee, making good on my earlier promise to her.
"So, Quentin Tarantino, huh?" I continued as I poured us both another cup of coffee. "I think my personal favorite will always be Pulp Fiction no matter what else he does."
"I think it's kinda tied for me with Inglourious Basterds," she replied between mouthfuls.
I nodded appreciatively. "Yeah, I think that's a close second for me to be honest. But if I'm not in the mood for some Tarantino—I'm not gonna lie, I could totally watch Anchorman any day. I mean, whenever it's on TV, I just stop what I'm doing and I watch it—it doesn't matter what part is on."
"For me, it's Forrest Gump. I think I've even caught it right at the end, you know the part where Forrest is talking to Jenny's grave...gets me every time."
She put a hand over her heart for extra emphasis and I found myself biting back a smile.
"How 'bout the Die Hard movies?" I threw out.
Her nose crinkled up a little and she frowned. "I've never seen them. Can't exactly say I've had a burning desire to."
"Aw, come on," I batted a hand out. "Those movies are awesome."
"Doesn't Bruce Willis play a cop trying to catch all the bad guys?" Her head tilted to the side as she spoke.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I don't know," she shrugged. "I guess I never pegged you as someone who would get all hot and bothered over a cop movie, given...you know."
She gestured to my cut with a sly grin.
My fork froze in mid-air as I tried to figure out whether or not she was messing with me. When her easy laughter rang in my ears, I was finally able to shake off how completely crazy it was that we were sitting here like this. Yet, here we were, sitting in a booth at midnight, drinking coffee, eating pie, and talking about movies.
For a moment, I wondered what it would be like to go back to her house and actually have that movie marathon with her. It would probably be just as much fun as this, if not more and thinking about it for too long would probably just set myself up for something I wouldn't like.
Thankfully, her phone buzzed in her purse and the spell was broken. She set her coffee cup down on the table and sheepishly held up a finger as her other hand dug for her phone. When she looked at the caller ID, it was like her entire body stilled in less than a second. Everything about her was tense, from the hushed way she answered, to the way her panicked eyes darted up to me for just a moment and then seemed to look anywhere but at me.
