Chapter Three #3
We followed him through a series of narrow hallways, past two empty holding cells and a break room that reeked of burned popcorn. The back lot was a slab of cracked asphalt, ringed by a ten-foot fence. My bike was there, crumpled and listing against a dumpster, gashed open like a carcass.
I almost didn’t recognize it.
Jo made a noise—something between a sigh and a growl—then went straight to it. He knelt beside the wreck, running his hands along the mangled front fork, the dented tank, the shredded seat. He didn’t say anything, but the way his fingers lingered over the paintwork made my throat close up.
The deputy handed me the clipboard. “Sign and date here. If you’re towing it, let us know when.”
Jo stood, wiped his hands on his jeans, and nodded. “We’ll haul it now.”
The deputy looked at me. “You good?”
I tried for a thumbs up, but my hand was shaking. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He left us alone in the lot. For a long minute, Jo just stared at the bike, then at me, then back at the bike. “You painted this?” he asked, voice low.
I swallowed. “Yeah. All custom.”
He nodded, looking thoughtful. “It’s good. Shame to see it like this.”
I wanted to joke, to deflect, but my mouth wouldn’t work. Instead, I just watched as he circled the wreck, assessing it from every angle.
“We can rebuild it,” he said, finally. “If you want.”
I laughed, sharp and humorless. “You planning to give it mouth-to-mouth?”
He looked at me, eyes dark and steady. “If that’s what it takes.”
The intensity of it made me dizzy. I looked away, focusing on a patch of spilled oil on the ground.
Jo stepped closer, voice gone soft. “You did good work, Bo. Even if you don’t know it.”
The words made something hot and tight flare up behind my eyes. I blinked hard, willing it away. “Yeah, well. Not much left to show for it.”
He put a hand on my shoulder, solid and warm. “It can be fixed,” he said again, but it felt like he meant more than just the bike.
I shrugged, pretending the contact didn’t matter. “Whatever you say, boss.”
He let go, then gestured at the bike. “Stay here. I’ll pull the truck around.”
I watched him go, then turned back to the wreck. The paint was ruined—years of work and touch-ups, all gone in a single night. I traced my finger over the biggest scratch, feeling the edge of it bite into my nail.
For a second, I wanted to cry, but instead I just dug my heel into the dirt and reminded myself that nothing beautiful ever lasted anyway.
A voice behind me made me jump.
“Hey, McKenzie,” the deputy called from the side door. “You got a second?”
I walked over, trying not to limp. He held out a cardboard box, duct-taped shut. “We found this in the wreck. Art supplies, some paintings? Didn’t know if you wanted them.”
I took it, the weight of it a weird comfort. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He nodded, then headed back inside, leaving me alone in the alley.
I carried the box back to the bike, set it down carefully on the ground. I peeled back the tape and saw my portfolio inside—bent, some pages blood-splattered, but intact.
The sight of it made my chest ache in a new way.
Jo’s truck rounded the corner, bed empty and ready. He parked, hopped out, and in under three minutes had a rigging system set up to winch the bike into place. He worked fast, efficient, muscles flexing under his shirt with every pull.
He glanced over at me, then at the box. “You get your stuff?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
He considered me for a second, then said, “You did good.”
I ducked my head, cheeks burning. “You keep saying that.”
He lifted the bike with a final heave, then tied it down so tight it couldn’t budge an inch. “Because you don’t believe it yet.”
He jumped down from the bed, dusted off his hands, then closed the tailgate with a thud. “Let’s go home.”
I picked up the box, clutching it to my chest, and climbed into the cab, more than ready to leave this small town behind. It was even smaller than McKenzie River, and that was astounding.
We drove in silence after that, but it was a different kind of quiet. Not angry, not tense—just full. Every so often, Jo would reach over and tap the box with his finger, like he was making sure it was real.
I stared out the window, watching the scenery blur past, and tried to figure out why I was listening to him, why I was letting him call the shots. Maybe it was because I knew he could fix the bike. Maybe it was because I wanted, more than anything, for someone to care enough to try.
Or maybe it was because, for the first time in years, I wanted to see what happened if I stopped running and let someone else do the driving. But even as I thought it, I knew I’d never be any good at following orders.
Not from Jo.
And definitely not from anyone else.
The first few miles, I kept my eyes glued to the side mirror, watching the town of Yreka shrink into the horizon like a bad dream.
Jo didn’t say a single word, just drove with that scary, surgical focus that made him the best mechanic in three counties.
His hands were back on the wheel, knuckles pale, veins standing out like blue cables.
I wanted to fill the silence, to make some joke about kidnappings or witness protection, but the memory of his hand on my throat kept me weirdly docile.
Instead, I fiddled with the zipper on my backpack, picked at the tape on my cheek, and tried not to think about how much I’d liked it—how much I wanted him to do it again.
When the sun finally crested the hills, the interior of the cab glowed gold, and the dust on the dashboard lit up like fireflies.
I watched his profile in the changing light: the stubborn nose, the sharp cheekbones, the little crinkle at the edge of his eye that deepened every time I tested his patience.
He caught me looking and didn’t turn, but his lips quirked, just a little. “You’re going to be a pain in my ass the whole way home, aren’t you?”
“Only if you keep acting like my parole officer,” I shot back, glad to have the air between us shift, even a little.
He grunted. “Don’t flatter yourself, Bo. If I was your parole officer, you’d already be in cuffs.”
A little shiver ran down my spine, and I wasn’t sure if it was fear or something a lot more fucked up. I licked my lips, tried to banter, but the words stuck. Instead, I muttered, “Whatever. Just don’t expect me to hold hands at family dinner.”
He didn’t reply, but I felt the temperature in the cab go up a couple degrees. We drove in silence for the better part of an hour, the highway stretching out ahead in a blur of asphalt and broken lines.
The pain in my side was dull, manageable, and my face only hurt when I smiled too wide, which I was starting to do more than I should.
At the first gas station, Jo pulled in and killed the engine. He tossed me a protein bar from the glove box, then got out and started pumping gas, movements brisk and controlled.
I ate the bar in three bites, choked it down with warm Gatorade, and watched through the windshield as he leaned against the fender, arms crossed, staring out over the lot like he owned the place.
There was a moment, right then, where I almost felt normal. Like we were just two old friends on a shitty road trip, not a rescuer and a broken-down stray.
When he climbed back in, he handed me a cold bottle of water. “Drink,” he said, not unkindly.
I took it, drained half in one go. “You always this bossy?” I asked, the sarcasm half-hearted.
He looked at me, eyes gone dark and hungry for a second. “Only with people who need it.”
I wanted to bite back, to push him, to see how far I could go before he snapped. But the way he was looking at me—the way his voice dipped on “need”—made my brain short-circuit again.
So I just said, “Yeah. Okay. Whatever.”
He started the engine, and we peeled out again, the highway stretching on, the world waking up all around us.
Every few miles, I snuck glances at him. The way his hands moved, the steady calm in his jaw, the twitch of a smile whenever I caught him looking back. It made me want to ask a thousand questions, to demand answers, to find out what the hell he meant by “you’re not ready to know.”
But for now, I was content to sit shotgun, to let him drive, to feel the faint ghost of his hand on my throat and wonder what else he’d do if I pushed him just a little harder.
Maybe I would.
Maybe I wanted to.
When we finally hit the city limits sign for McKenzie River, Jo slowed down, glancing over at me with a look I couldn’t decode.
“You still with me?” he asked.
I smirked. “Not like I got anywhere else to be.”
He nodded, and for the first time since he’d picked me up, his mouth relaxed into something close to a real smile.
“Good,” he said. “Because we’re not done.”
And I believed him.
God help me, I wanted it to be true.