Drifter

by Janine Infante Bosco

  “I’ll be right outside,” he whispers.

  “Okay,” I murmur as he drops his hands from my face and hesitantly steps out of the bathroom. The door clicks as it closes and I glance at myself in the mirror.

  The bruising has faded, the swelling has gone down and the cuts and scrapes have healed. I look like my old self but I feel ugly, used, abused—fucking destroyed. Bravely, I keep my eyes glued to the mirror as I strip off my clothes and will myself to remember this body belongs to me and not the men who attacked me.

  It’s mine to save.

  Mine to heal.

  Mine to love again.

  Finally, I make my way into the shower and let the water stream down on me. I don’t scrub my skin raw and I wonder if that’s a sign of healing or if I’ve lost the will to even do that. By the time the water runs cold I’m ready to get out and decide that I’m not going to go back to bed. Maybe I’ll clean. After my mother found out she had cancer she used to clean to forget. You could eat off the floors in our house, and anyone who visited wouldn’t have thought the woman who polished those floors was dying.

  Wrapping the towel around my body, I open the door and step into the bedroom. I hear muffled voices from outside my bedroom door but I ignore them and move to stand in front of my closet.

  I want so badly to be able to put those clothes on but every time I look at them I think of the words they whispered in my ear. Not willing to have another meltdown I turn and grab a pair of sweats from my dresser drawer and a fitted t-shirt. After I’m dressed I throw my wet hair in a ponytail when Stryker knocks on the door.

  “Babe, you dressed?”

  I pull open the door expecting the worried gaze I’m used to but instead Stryker looks pissed.

  “What?”

  “We’ve got company,” he hisses as he rubs a hand over his bald head in frustration. I brush passed him, creeping into the hallway and spot my brother on the couch. I haven’t seen him since the hotel but he’s called Stryker daily for an update. I don’t think he can face me. Even now, his face is covered by his hands and he looks like he wants to be anywhere but here.

  Guilt.

  It will consume you.

  Tear you apart.

  Ruin you.

  “I can kick him out,” Stryker whispers against my ear. “Just say the word and his fancy ass will be on the curb.”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Fine, but he’s not alone,” he adds, causing me to turn around.

  “Who else is here?”

  He remains quiet for a moment before he blows out a ragged breath.

  “Your family.”

  Immediately I think of Celeste, but she came over yesterday and I remember her saying she had an eighteen hour shift at the hospital.

  Curiously, I turn around and start down the hallway.

  Pausing midway as my mind betrays me and suddenly drags me down into the depths of hell. In a flash I’m no longer in my own house but in that narrow alley.

  I cry.

  I scream.

  No.

  But it’s all ignored as I’m dragged across the concrete.

  “No!”

  “Gina!”

  I kick, I smack, I even throw a punch and then my arms are pinned to my sides and I feel the hot tears slide down my cheeks.

  I’ve got you.

  I’ve got you.

  “I’ve got you,” Stryker chants, enveloping me in his arms as he pulls my back against his chest. We slide to the floor and my body trembles as I sob uncontrollably.

  “Let it out,” he whispers. “Let it out.”

  I don’t know how long we sit on the floor in the hallway—seconds, minutes, an hour—but I spot the dress shoes in front of me and I remember I was walking to greet my brother when I lost my shit. I lift my gaze slowly and meet his somber face.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

  “Gina?”

  I divert my eyes over his shoulder and spot Aunt Grace behind him. She wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand, and for the first time in my life I can make out the resemblance her and my mother share. She walks toward me, glances at Stryker and I feel his arms loosen around me as she crouches down in front of me.

  “My sweet girl,” she whispers, touching my cheek. “It’s going to be okay,” she says softly. “You’re going to be okay.”

  No, I’m not.

  I don’t tell her that though.

  Instead, I stare at her until she brings me into her arms and hugs me, like a mother holds her child. Only she’s not my mother, she’s my aunt; my aunt who I haven’t spoken to in years.

  I lift my head from her shoulder and stare at my brother, watch as he shoves his hands into his pockets before he turns and walks down the hallway.

  “Your brother told me what happened, sweetheart,” she murmurs softly, her hands caressing my back gently. “He thought maybe you could use a reminder of your mom. I’m not her, I’ll never be her, but I think I know what she would do if she was here.”

  My gaze darts back to Rocco just in time to watch him walk out the front door.

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” Stryker mutters as I turn to my aunt.

  “My sweet girl, come here,” she whispers.

  She’s right.

  She’s not my mother.

  But she’s the closest thing I have left to my mother so I let her hold me and tell me it’s going to be okay. I confide my feelings, tell her all the things I wish I could tell my mother, and then when there are no more tears left to cry, I fall asleep in her arms.

  And I dream.

  I dream of my mom.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  I think bikers get a bad rap.

  We’re meant to see them in one light—as criminals. Society labels them a gang when in all actuality they’re nothing but a family. The term brother is used loosely amongst them but only those close to them truly know they are one hundred percent actual brothers. Maybe not by blood but by choice, and sometimes that’s all you need in this world. Sometimes, most times, the family you choose is the family that sticks with you through thick and thin, through the ugly.

  I’m sorry I ever let society get their hooks into me. I’m sorry I only saw the ugly and never looked for the beautiful, especially since that beautiful has been so kind to me.

  Since my attack, Stryker’s brothers have gone above and beyond. I know they are doing it for him, because he is one of them, a Satan’s Knight, but still, I’m sure they all have lives of their own to carry on with. For example; there’s Jack Parrish, he’s been here too. He’s seen me at my worst more than once and each time he looks at me with compassion, something you wouldn’t think to find in the eyes of biker, at least not one known as the Bulldog.

  I don’t know if it was Stryker’s idea or Jacks, but after weeks of sitting in this apartment not sleeping and not eating. Stryker told me we were getting out of here.

  Leaving Brooklyn.

  I laughed at him.

  Did he really think running away from this nightmare would help? Did he think the rape wouldn’t follow us everywhere we went?

  He told me not to think of it that way, not to think of it as though we were running away from something, but instead that we were running toward something.

  I asked him what that something was.

  The future, forever, take your pick.

  That’s another lie I’d like to believe.

  The old Gina would’ve believed it.

  The old Gina would’ve happily packed her bags when he told her he was taking her home to meet his mother. She would’ve probably obsessed for hours on her outfit instead of looking for the least flattering clothes she owned. She would’ve also insisted they ride on the back of his motorcycle not in the van his president provided us. Not that I actually had voiced my opinion on our means of transportation. Jack showed up with a cargo van, stuffed Stryker’s Harley into the back and i
nstructed him to take me on one hell of a long ride when I was healed. Then he turned to me, winked and told me his remedy for everything.

  A Harley and the open road heals all.

  If only it was true.

  If only I believed it.

  If only he hadn’t meant that I couldn’t get on the back of Stryker’s bike because the insides of my thighs may still be bruised.

  “Five facts,” Stryker says, pulling me away from my mind and the scenery I’m pretending to stare at as we drive to Albany. I glance over at him and the urge to smile almost makes its way to my lips as I note how absolutely ridiculous he looks behind a steering wheel. The man was born to ride a motorcycle. That’s a fact.

  “One,” he starts, making sure he has my attention. “Albany is boring as fuck. Two, I haven’t seen my mother in a long time so if she slams the door in our faces…trust it’s not you but me.”

  “Why?”

  He pauses for a moment, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white.

  “Because I couldn’t save her and I got tired of failing,” he admits, then abruptly pulls off to the shoulder and I brace my hands against the dashboard as we come to a complete stop.

  “Shit,” he mutters. “I’m sorry,” he says, raking his hands over his head in frustration. “I don’t want you to think I’m that guy.”

  I stare at him blankly unsure what he’s talking about.

  “Gina, I don’t know what’s going on in your head. I know you’re all over the place and rightfully so, but I don’t want you to over think what I just said.”

  “I think you’re the one over thinking,” I point out. I’d raise an eyebrow, but that requires effort and I’m all out of that. Instead, I watch him lean back and the corners of his mouth curve slightly.

  “There she is,” he whispers, reaching out to run his finger down the bridge of my nose. “My pretty little smartass.”

  I open my mouth to object, to tell him everything he knows about the woman I used to be is gone, but his finger travels down my nose to rest at my lips.

  “She’s in there,” he states. “And when she’s ready, she’ll come back. That’s why I pulled over like an animal. I want you to know I didn’t mean what I said, you’re not my mother…and I’d never give up on you.”

  I open my mouth but he shakes his head silencing me once more.

  “That’s a fact,” he assures me.

  “You still have two more to go,” I say against his finger.

  He smiles again at me, dropping his finger and turning his attention back to the road in front of him. Slowly, he veers back onto the highway and lifts four fingers in the air.

  “Four, contrary to popular belief my favorite meal isn’t bologna and cheese, it is meatloaf. Five, that’s what we’re having for dinner so I hope you love meatloaf too or this life we’re living will be hard on you because there are certain things a man can’t live without, and meatloaf is definitely one of them.”

  I smile.

  A real smile.

  And for a moment I’m human.

  For a moment I’m Gina.

  My stomach even makes an appearance and growls loudly at the mention of food.

  “I don’t remember the last time I ate anything,” I say out loud.

  “Tuesday,” he answers.

  “It’s Thursday,” I reply.

  “We’ll get seconds on the meatloaf,” he promises, those full lips of his quirking again and I start to think believing the lie won’t be so hard. If he keeps smiling, I might just believe I’m normal, that my life isn’t over, that it’s different.

  There is hope for me.

  And hope is delivered to me in a six-foot package. A package decorated in tattoos that resemble stars drawn onto his skin with a Sharpie. A package complete with dog tags and cargo pants. A package named Stryker.

  A package named Chase Kincaid.

  We drive for a while longer. The whole time he tries to get me to engage in conversation, tells me things about his childhood, like the first time he broke the law. His mother’s name is Claire, and she loves gardening. Or at least she used to.

  He goes on to tell me about the Satan’s Knights of Albany and how they are so different compared to Brooklyn. I find myself joining in on the conversation, asking questions and even offering my opinion at times. He explains why he went nomad, what being a nomad even means and I give him one fact.

  “I love Wolf.”

  “You’ve never met him.”

  “Yes, but I love him anyway because if it wasn’t for him we never would’ve met.”

  “We would’ve met one way or another.”

  “You think so?”

  “Pretty girl, that lightning would’ve found us one way or another.”

  Lightning, right there between us.

  I feel it.

  It’s a sure sign I’m still alive and still able to feel the important things.

  Like lightning.

  “Time to eat,” he announces, pulling into a parking spot. I glance up at the little diner that mimics a trailer. “Don’t judge a book by its cover, pretty girl. This place has the best fucking meatloaf in all of New York.”

  He gets out of the van as I pull down the visor, fitting the baseball cap to my head as I try to hide my face. Even though the evidence of my attack is long gone, every time I look in the mirror I still see the image reflected back at me the very first time I saw myself after the rape.

  He pulls open the door and holds out his hand.

  “You’re beautiful,” he insists, closing the visor.

  “You may be biased,” I say as I climb out of the van with his help.

  “I’m one hundred percent biased,” he agrees, lacing our fingers together as he leads me to the diner.

  “Is this the hot spot in Albany?”

  “I have no fucking idea what’s hot and what’s not but the meatloaf is a killer.”

  “Do you realize how much our relationship is based on food?” I ask thoughtfully as he pulls open the door for me.

  “The way to a man’s heart is his stomach and isn’t that the end goal?”

  “And there he is,” I say as I step inside the tiny diner. The aroma of good old-fashioned comfort food hits me and my stomach churns again. “At this rate it’s the way to a woman’s heart.”

  “Then I guess I’m lucky,” he says, planting a kiss to the top of my head. “Table for two please.”

  “Right this way,” the hostess says cheerfully, leading us to a booth.

  “Do you trust me?” he asks as she hands us menus.

  A simple question but one that I’m not sure I can adequately answer. He’ll never know how much I trust him. Never. So I nod in reply because words won’t justifiably answer his question.

  “We’ll have the meatloaf special. Two of them.”

  “Four of them,” I correct, glancing from the waitress back to him. “You promised me seconds.”

  “Four of them,” he repeats.

  The waitress leaves to fill our drink orders and Stryker digs into his pocket, producing some change and shoves it into the tiny jukebox sitting on the end of the table next to the bottle of ketchup. He speaks to me softly as he searches for a song, but I don’t hear what he’s saying as my mind travels.

  I think about the evolution of us.

  How a simple game of pool turned into a lifeline.

  I think of that first night and how I felt the next morning when he left. I think about all the times he wouldn’t fall asleep in my bed, how I always found him in the chair or on the couch. I think about the one night he did stay in bed with me and the torment etched in every single feature as he fought to remain in control simply to fulfill a promise to me. Finally, my mind leads me to the night he fell asleep and the nightmare I witnessed him suffer through.

  “I get it,” I blurt, watching as his eyes drift back to me, narrowing at me in confusion. “I get it now,” I start ag
ain. “I get why you felt the need to leave me.”

  “Gina—” he says, but I mimic him by leaning over the table and placing a single finger against his lips.

  “It’s not that you didn’t want to stay. I bet you wanted more than anything to stay with me that night, but you didn’t because you thought you were doing me a favor. You didn’t want to burden me with your demons. I get it now. I feel it. I know the embarrassment, the fear and the shame. I know what it’s like now and I forgive you for walking away. I commend you for it because you’re stronger than I am and a whole lot less selfish.”

  I pause tracing my finger along his lips before dropping my hand and laying both palms flat on the table as I lift my gaze to his.

  “Five facts,” I breathe. “One, I don’t know when I will be myself again, if I’ll ever be myself. Two, the old me would’ve jumped all over the fact you’re bringing me to meet your mother. I would’ve probably thrown in a jab that you surely love me if you’re taking me home to mama. Three, this new me has trouble looking at you because I can’t possibly understand how you can still look at me the same way you did before. Four, I don’t know how this is ever going to work because I can’t fathom you ever wanting me again—”

  “I do,” he interrupts.

  “You do what? Don’t say you want me. I’m not ready to hear that, to hear that and know for a fact I’m not sure if I’ll ever be ready to give that to you again. Right now I can’t imagine standing in front of you naked much less being intimate.”

  “I do love you,” he says. “Fact,” he continues, reaching for my hands. “So, you might want to start writing Gina Kincaid in a notebook, test it out, see if it works and when you’re ready, let me know. You said it takes at least a thousand times before you can even consider it, right? Well, if you write real slow maybe by the time you’re finished, we’ll have figured out all the rest.”

  Hope.

  Right there.

  In-between the sparks of lightning.

  Inside a little diner waiting for four servings of meatloaf.

  “When you’re ready, Gina, whenever you’re ready I’ll be right here, all you gotta do is reach for me,” he whispers hoarsely, squeezing my hands in assurance.