Fourteen
FOURTEEN
Speaking with Dagen’s dad today made the guilt I already felt for the way I acted last night just fester for the rest of the afternoon.
“I really appreciate you looking after Dagen in addition to the repairs. There are a lot of creeps out there and man to man, I’m relieved to know you’re one of the good ones.” Sure, if one of the good ones means imagining your daughter riding me and screaming my name then I am the best you’ll ever meet.
I also got yet another lecture from Kinsley letting me know I was acting like a tool and if I ever wanted to make cute babies with Dagen, I needed to quit being a jerk and make her smile instead of frown. No one said I wanted to make babies with Dagen. I wouldn’t mind making the beast with two backs, but babies are just a far fetched fantasy.
Dagen seemed to perk up a bit when I asked her if she’d like to ride my bike again and now we sit at Wok This Way, waiting for the massive amount of food I ordered.
“I really am sorry for being so horrible to you.”
“Why were you?” The small paper lantern on our table flickers and lights up the green in her eyes like sparkling jewels.
With a sigh I ask, “Truth?” She nods her head because it was highly unlikely that she’d want to be fed a bullshit story. “You’re gorgeous and it was my defense mechanism.”
Her face does this thing where it pales, but her cheeks heat to a bright red. It’s clear that I have shocked her, but it really shouldn’t be that much of a shock. I mean, I did try to sleep with her just hours after we met. That was pretty much a dead giveaway.
“How did you come to be in Cattywump Bay?” I ask her, trying to change the subject and salvage the rest of the night.
However I don’t think I really accomplished that. In fact, I may have made it worse if the look of nausea on her face is any indication.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell.”
“No, it’s fine. It’s just…” Her fingers twist the napkin she holds and I can sense her hesitation. “It’s a long story with a lot of fucked up stuff, but I’ll try to edit it as best as I can for you.”
She takes a deep breath before starting, and the words that follow leave me completely speechless.
“I recently found out that the woman who birthed me actually conceived me after slipping my Dad some drugs and taking advantage of him while he was unconscious. Basically she raped him, then said she’d take me away from him unless he stayed with her.”
“Holy fucking shit.” My stomach drops and if possible, I feel even worse for lying to her father about not having ulterior motives to allowing her to stay with me.
“Yup. Fucking shit is right. When I found out that not only had my Mom and Dad kept it from me, but that my grandparents –the rapist's parents– knew all about it and threatened to take me away from my Dad, I kind of lost my mind. So I did the only logical thing I could think of, and took off in my Mom’s car –technically my step-mom but she’s more than that– and drove all the way to Florida to confront them and tell them to go to hell where their daughter surely is.”
I’m trying really hard right now to say something other than I’m sorry because that would just be an idiotic thing to say. But how does one respond to a story like that?
“I was abandoned by my drug addicted mother after she decided that I was in the way of her lifestyle when I was four.” Welp, I guess that is clearly the answer I could come up with.
“Looks like we’re two fucked up peas in a pod,” she jokes, a placating chuckle on her lips.
“I’d say so. But the good news is that you have parents that very obviously care for you. I went fourteen years without anyone wanting to adopt me.”
She swallows and almost looks guilty for the fact that she had people that wanted her so badly that they were willing to do anything to be in her life. Including marrying someone who violated them in the worst way.
“Not to be disrespectful or anything, but why didn’t your dad press charges?”
She shrugs with a sigh. “From what I understand, he didn’t think anyone would believe him. A nineteen year old boy accusing a woman of raping him. He was drunk and on drugs –unbeknownst to him– so she could’ve easily turned the story around. Who would have you believed?”
“Damn. You’re right.”
We sit in silence for a moment longer before our food is placed on the table. We fill our plates and take the first few bites before we speak again.
“So,” she starts. “You met Malik and Danté while you were at a foster home together?”
Nodding, I tell her our story. “We all ended up in a group home for boys when we were fourteen. Miss Shirley was the director there, which is why the three of us take such good care of her now. We put her through hell.”
Dagen chuckles softly and says, “I have no doubt about that.”
I fling a soybean at her and she dodges just before it hits her on her forehead. “D and Mal and I didn’t really care for one another at first, but all it took was one night of underage drinking and idiotic dares to bring us together.”
“And the rest is history?”
“Exactly. When we aged out of foster care, we decided that we’d make our own family. The three of us legally changed our last names to Dare and that’s how we became brothers.”
“Was this before or after the millions of dollars came? Which, by the way, you are a huge hypocrite.”
I don’t like talking about money. Growing up with none and suddenly having more than you can spend in a lifetime is a huge life shake up. Some people roll with it and show off their money, searching for the status and approval that they didn’t have before. Example: Danté. Then there’s me. Yes, I buy nice things. But my home is the only one I own and probably the only one I’ll ever own because I designed it how I wanted and I don’t want to have to go through that process again.
Everyone in town knows our story. Those who abandoned us came running with their hands out. There were very few who actually realized we were boys in need of guidance and love. Those people –Miss Shirley, Officer Ulrich and his wife, and our high school principal Mrs. Kirkland– we made sure to thank them in whichever way we could.
But even with all of that, I still like to keep to myself and fade into the background. I let Danté be the star that he’s always wanted to be. I’m just the cranky rich asshole who doesn’t like people that is either hiding in his home or riding bikes with his brothers.
Dagen still stares at me, waiting for me to say something. “How about we not talk about shitty moms or money?”
“I like that idea.” She smiles and it instantly brightens the dim restaurant.
Kind of how it brightens my dark mood, and I’m not sure if I like it.
We spent another hour eating and talking and I did something I haven’t done in years with someone other than my brothers. I laughed. Not one of those courteous laughs you give to strangers, but an actual feel it in my belly laugh.
“Did you want me to go ahead and drive?” She asks as we gear up for the ride home.
Another laugh expels from my mouth along with a smirk. “Nice try, little mouse, but that won’t be happening on my watch.”
“Why not? I’ve driven my Dad’s Harley before?” She tugs her helmet on and flips the visor open.
“A Harley is a lot different than a Superleggera V4.” I tug my gloves on, wiggling my fingers to ensure they’re snug.
“I doubt that. A motorcycle is a motorcycle. Two wheels, two handles. Same.”
A mischievous idea blooms. “Okay, little mouse. You let me take you on a real ride meaning I get to really open it up. If after our ride you still feel like you can handle a machine like this between your legs, I’ll teach you to ride.”
She smiles and flips her visor down and I swear I hear her mumble, “Maybe you can show me how to ride a different kind of machine.”
“Huh?” I ask.
“Oh nothing,” she says quickly and climbs on back.
She may not be ready to admit it, but I know what she said. And though she may think she knows what she wants, I’m willing to show her what she needs.
I throw my leg over my prized possession and get situated. This baby isn’t a mass produced bike and it’s the one item I would’ve happily spent my fortune on. Who cares that it was made to race on a track. I wanted it in my hands and I was going to have it no matter what anyone said. So the thought of anyone driving it but me makes me want to crawl out of my skin. The fact that Dagen is riding with me is a feat. No one rides this bike but me.
I tap a button on my helmet then turn around and do the same to Dagen’s helmet to connect the bluetooth speakers. Once they’re paired up I tell her, “The other night, I took it slow. This bike is much more powerful than I let on. I took it easy on the ride over, but I won’t hold back now. Engage your core muscles and if at any point you get scared, grip tight and just tell me to stop. Got it?”
“I got it but don’t worry. I won’t tell you to stop. I want all that you got.”
My body tingles with her words, wanting them to mean more than just a fast ride.
“Be careful what you wish for, little mouse.” I turn my back to her and when she places her hands on my shoulders, I move them to my waist.
I put my gear into neutral and turn the fuel tap on. Moving the choke, I press the electric start and listen to my bike roar to life. The vibration that it sends through my body is an adrenaline rush. I’ve never felt happier than when I’m on my bike. Tonight the rush is amplified with Dagen on the back.
My Superleggera V4 has a free-rev engine and it loves to talk. Once I get the motor spinning at ten thousand rpm’s, Dagen is really going to wish she hadn't told me to give her everything.
The sound is ear piercing and I feel her hands grip me tighter.
“Ready?” I ask her.
“Um, yes?” Her confident voice only minutes ago sounds like she’s already regretting her words.
“The torque has a big kick,” I shout over the motor. “We’re going to take off fast.” I reach around and give her thigh a squeeze, assuring her that I got her.
One second we’re standing still on my beast, and the next we’re flying down the street at eighty miles an hour. Her voice squeaks and her hands wrap around my waist as she grips on for dear life.
I split between slow moving cars until I get on the highway. It’s quiet tonight so I decide to take her down to the gulf, taking the long way from one highway to the next.
It isn’t long before she’s relaxing and falling into my sway like the other night, despite the speed I’m going. I can feel the rapid rise and fall of her chest and I realize mine moves to the same beat. Our gear makes it difficult to really feel everything, but I feel her fingers splay over my stomach. They creep their way to the hem of my jacket and work under the snug fit. She doesn’t wear gloves like I do and the soft skin of her fingers ghost over my heated flesh. My muscles flex and my hands grip tighter on the handles as we speed faster down the highway. The tension in her body leaves and we fall into a comfortable silence.
Twenty minutes pass by when we cross the Bay St. Louis Bridge and roll up straight to Henderson Point Beach. I pull my bike off the highway and into the small parking lot that sits along the sand. I turn off the engine and throw my kickstand down.
When we’re met with silence, I look over my shoulder and see Dagen pull off her helmet and her long brown hair tumbles over her shoulders. Sweat coats her forehead and I pull my hands free from the gloves and reach over to wipe it away. Her eyes glisten under the moonlight and I want to drown in them.
Climbing off, I turn around and sit back down facing her and leaning back against the gas tank. My helmet gets pulled off and I start to undo the zipper on my jacket. Dagen’s eyes watch every tooth as it pulls apart from the other. It’s a slow tease and she’s a captive audience.
When my jacket is open, giving me a little more room to breathe, I do the same to hers.
“So what do you think? Still wanna learn to ride?”
Her eyes grow wide and she gulps with a nod. “Yes. More than ever.”
Smirking, I tell her, “That’s not what was supposed to happen.”
“What was supposed to happen? Were you expecting me to run scared?”
“Well, yeah.”
She leans forward, bracing her hands on the seat and whispers, “I think you’ve found a side of me that was waiting for the right person to unlock it. And now I want more.”
This little mouse may have bitten off more than she can chew.