Long Way Home
Page 54
“Coach specifically told me he doesn’t want you involved. He said you talking to the school’s administration, the board, will only hurt my case, not help.”
Cyrus goes red and his fork clanks against the table when he throws it down. “You’re my family and we will take care of it as we see fit. The Terror will stand behind you.”
“Not on this. Let Coach handle this.”
“We know how to handle the school board. We know how to talk to them to get them to understand.”
“No!” Chevy snaps, and I shake with his voice. He never raises his voice. Not like this. Chevy doesn’t lose control. “The football team—it isn’t your world. It’s my world. It’s completely separate from you, from the Terror, from this house. You don’t get a vote on this. If I say Coach is going to take care of it, he takes care of it.”
Cyrus shakes his head, opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but Chevy mutters, “Fuck it,” snatches his jacket off the back of a chair and goes for the back door. It creaks open, then slams shut.
When Cyrus goes to stand, I smack my good leg against the table, rattling everyone’s plates, as I struggle to get to my feet first. “Let me.”
I fumble with my crutches in haste as Chevy can move faster than me when I have two working legs. The men maneuver out of my way, and Man O’ War opens the door for me. I’m out, frantically scan for Chevy, and he’s already halfway across the yard, moving toward his bike.
“Chevy!”
He turns, and when he sees me, he stops. I’m hobbling as fast as I can, the crutches digging into my arms. As if he realized I wasn’t a dream, Chevy stalks in my direction, and when he comes close enough, I let go of the crutches and fall into him, knowing he’ll catch me. My head to his shoulder, squeezing him as tight as I can. “I’m sorry.”
Chevy hugs me back, in a bear sort of way, his body encompassing mine, his arms steel bands, his nose nuzzling into my hair as if he can’t find a way to get close enough.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again. “I’m so sorry.”
“Come with me?” Chevy asks.
I press tighter to him as if there was actual space between us. “Anywhere.”
“All I got is my bike.”
And my knee is bad, plus I haven’t been on the back of a bike since Dad died.
“But I won’t go far. I promise.”
My throat knots. The back of a bike, but it’s with Chevy and he needs me. “Then let’s go.”
The air rushes out of my lungs when Chevy leans down and swings me up in his arms. He walks fast for his bike, probably wishing that no one from the Terror is watching us. That for a few minutes, we can find a way to be completely alone in our grief.
His Harley is a beautiful piece of machinery. It’s the bike his father rode and it was given to Chevy the day he turned sixteen. He cares for this bike with the same loving care he shows when he touches me.
Chevy sets me on the ground, draws his leather jacket off his shoulders, places it on mine, pulls his keys out of his pocket, and the moment he’s on, he offers his hand to me.
Countless times, Chevy has given me his jacket, but I don’t remember it being so warm or the rich scent of spices so thick and comforting.
I accept his hand, ease onto the seat so I don’t place weight on my bad knee, then swing the good one over to the other side. Even though I haven’t ridden a motorcycle in months, I’m still a biker girl at heart. Because of that, I have never stopped placing a hair tie in my pocket just in case.
I tie my hair at the nape of my neck, then wrap my arms around Chevy’s stomach so I can hide my face in his back. He doesn’t need to see the wince as I position the foot of my bad leg on the rest.
Chevy starts the bike, the engine rumbles beneath me and in seconds we’re gone. I lift my head and enjoy the wind on my face, my hair rippling in the currents, the way my body vibrates with the powerful machine. The feel of Chevy’s strong body beneath my touch is heaven and the poetic memories of freedom that only being on the back of a bike bring flood to my mind.
There’s a spark within me, a jolt of hope and joy. Happiness. It’s there, it’s almost within reach. Chevy tackles the curve at breakneck speed as if we’re chasing happiness down with all we’re worth.
I rest my chin on his shoulder, then turn my head to kiss Chevy’s neck. He reaches back and squeezes my thigh. I love you, Chevy. I love you so much it hurts. I love you so much I’m not sure I’ll ever love anyone as much as I love you.
I don’t say any of that, but I do press my lips to his neck and kiss him again.
CHEVY
VIOLET LAUGHS AS I juggle her, open the door to my home, then kick it shut with my foot. The sound is like the best buzz I’ve experienced. The best way to end a crappy day. The best way to end any day is with Violet in my arms.
Once inside, I gently set her on the couch and I pause as I straighten. She’s beautiful. Fire-red hair, eyes that rival any clear blue sky, skin so soft it could be satin and she’s smiling. Violet’s smiling. She’s always been the most beautiful creature on the face of the planet, but smiling, Violet is a queen.
“How’s your knee?” I ask.
“Okay. Little sore, but it’ll be fine once I stretch it out.”
Violet shifts and lays her leg on the love seat, but her knee is still bent. The living room is only big enough for the blue love seat, a twenty-inch flat-screen on the wall and the brown leather recliner we found on clearance because of the rip on the back.
Cyrus goes red and his fork clanks against the table when he throws it down. “You’re my family and we will take care of it as we see fit. The Terror will stand behind you.”
“Not on this. Let Coach handle this.”
“We know how to handle the school board. We know how to talk to them to get them to understand.”
“No!” Chevy snaps, and I shake with his voice. He never raises his voice. Not like this. Chevy doesn’t lose control. “The football team—it isn’t your world. It’s my world. It’s completely separate from you, from the Terror, from this house. You don’t get a vote on this. If I say Coach is going to take care of it, he takes care of it.”
Cyrus shakes his head, opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but Chevy mutters, “Fuck it,” snatches his jacket off the back of a chair and goes for the back door. It creaks open, then slams shut.
When Cyrus goes to stand, I smack my good leg against the table, rattling everyone’s plates, as I struggle to get to my feet first. “Let me.”
I fumble with my crutches in haste as Chevy can move faster than me when I have two working legs. The men maneuver out of my way, and Man O’ War opens the door for me. I’m out, frantically scan for Chevy, and he’s already halfway across the yard, moving toward his bike.
“Chevy!”
He turns, and when he sees me, he stops. I’m hobbling as fast as I can, the crutches digging into my arms. As if he realized I wasn’t a dream, Chevy stalks in my direction, and when he comes close enough, I let go of the crutches and fall into him, knowing he’ll catch me. My head to his shoulder, squeezing him as tight as I can. “I’m sorry.”
Chevy hugs me back, in a bear sort of way, his body encompassing mine, his arms steel bands, his nose nuzzling into my hair as if he can’t find a way to get close enough.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again. “I’m so sorry.”
“Come with me?” Chevy asks.
I press tighter to him as if there was actual space between us. “Anywhere.”
“All I got is my bike.”
And my knee is bad, plus I haven’t been on the back of a bike since Dad died.
“But I won’t go far. I promise.”
My throat knots. The back of a bike, but it’s with Chevy and he needs me. “Then let’s go.”
The air rushes out of my lungs when Chevy leans down and swings me up in his arms. He walks fast for his bike, probably wishing that no one from the Terror is watching us. That for a few minutes, we can find a way to be completely alone in our grief.
His Harley is a beautiful piece of machinery. It’s the bike his father rode and it was given to Chevy the day he turned sixteen. He cares for this bike with the same loving care he shows when he touches me.
Chevy sets me on the ground, draws his leather jacket off his shoulders, places it on mine, pulls his keys out of his pocket, and the moment he’s on, he offers his hand to me.
Countless times, Chevy has given me his jacket, but I don’t remember it being so warm or the rich scent of spices so thick and comforting.
I accept his hand, ease onto the seat so I don’t place weight on my bad knee, then swing the good one over to the other side. Even though I haven’t ridden a motorcycle in months, I’m still a biker girl at heart. Because of that, I have never stopped placing a hair tie in my pocket just in case.
I tie my hair at the nape of my neck, then wrap my arms around Chevy’s stomach so I can hide my face in his back. He doesn’t need to see the wince as I position the foot of my bad leg on the rest.
Chevy starts the bike, the engine rumbles beneath me and in seconds we’re gone. I lift my head and enjoy the wind on my face, my hair rippling in the currents, the way my body vibrates with the powerful machine. The feel of Chevy’s strong body beneath my touch is heaven and the poetic memories of freedom that only being on the back of a bike bring flood to my mind.
There’s a spark within me, a jolt of hope and joy. Happiness. It’s there, it’s almost within reach. Chevy tackles the curve at breakneck speed as if we’re chasing happiness down with all we’re worth.
I rest my chin on his shoulder, then turn my head to kiss Chevy’s neck. He reaches back and squeezes my thigh. I love you, Chevy. I love you so much it hurts. I love you so much I’m not sure I’ll ever love anyone as much as I love you.
I don’t say any of that, but I do press my lips to his neck and kiss him again.
CHEVY
VIOLET LAUGHS AS I juggle her, open the door to my home, then kick it shut with my foot. The sound is like the best buzz I’ve experienced. The best way to end a crappy day. The best way to end any day is with Violet in my arms.
Once inside, I gently set her on the couch and I pause as I straighten. She’s beautiful. Fire-red hair, eyes that rival any clear blue sky, skin so soft it could be satin and she’s smiling. Violet’s smiling. She’s always been the most beautiful creature on the face of the planet, but smiling, Violet is a queen.
“How’s your knee?” I ask.
“Okay. Little sore, but it’ll be fine once I stretch it out.”
Violet shifts and lays her leg on the love seat, but her knee is still bent. The living room is only big enough for the blue love seat, a twenty-inch flat-screen on the wall and the brown leather recliner we found on clearance because of the rip on the back.
