Grace #2
There are moments when a huge burden lifts off your soul.
This isn’t one of them. Because the knife isn’t for Chase—it’s for Nikky.
Chase won’t kidnap me. He won’t hurt me.
He’s had ample opportunity to do it, and still, he didn’t.
And since he got free, I’ve started to see myself more clearly.
It was never only him I was running from—never only him I was afraid of.
I used my wrath and hate to keep myself away from him.
I wanted to bring back to life the girl who died in the summer of 2000.
Because Chase Baker crushed me to pieces and put me back together as someone else.
A different Grace. Still, that doesn’t mean I must be with him.
Cyrus is leaving for Tulsa to see Greta this evening. Before that, we’re driving to Newcastle—a twenty-minute ride from Willow Creek—to check out a motorcycle.
Cyrus found a Harley-Davidson FXSTC 1340 Softail Custom from 1988 and fell in love instantly. While I was putting on my new clothes, he was flipping through the magazines. When he saw the ad, he said that Harley had been sent to him by the universe.
He looked so happy when he shoved the magazine under my nose that I didn’t have the heart to say no.
I never thought I’d be a biker girl… and no matter how much my life has changed, I still haven’t gotten used to the idea.
But Cyrus is right. I have to live my life.
No matter how reluctant I was about those new clothes, I had to admit they look good on me.
They fit my body perfectly, tracing every curve—making me feel like a woman instead of a girl whose life was derailed, whose life is still hurtling downhill at breakneck speed.
The red bandanna is striking, contrasting nicely with my pale face and bright blue eyes. I didn’t put on the black leather jacket, but I brought it with me. I’ll need it if Tom—the current owner—lets us take the bike for a ride.
“We’re almost there.”
Cyrus’s deep voice pulls me out of the sticky web of my thoughts.
I look to the right, and my mouth parts slightly when I see the gorgeous gray-and-red house.
The gabled roof and the upper portion of the house are gray.
The lower section is clad in red brick. Like most American houses, this one isn’t fenced in.
A white mailbox stands at the front of the property, and a neatly maintained, acid-green lawn stretches around the house.
A wide driveway leads to the massive garage.
On the idyllic porch, rocking chairs with floral cushions sway gently.
Five hanging planters line the porch, flowers spilling down like a colorful waterfall.
They probably have a lot of kids and grandchildren—at least that’s what the pool and playground in the backyard suggest.
Cyrus pulls up to the curb, gets out of the car, and immediately shakes Tom’s hand.
The older man is wearing black shorts and a short-sleeved black shirt, unbuttoned to the middle of his chest. Gold chains hang from his neck, and the silver hairs stand in stark contrast to his sun-tanned skin.
He wears his long white hair in a ponytail, and his white beard hangs below his chin.
I follow Cyrus’s lead: I step up beside them and stick my hand out to the guy.
He looks me up and down. I feel a little uncomfortable in the new clothes, but when he looks into my eyes…
I see pity there. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth—after all these years, I’m still offended when people seem to “know” who I am because of my past.
I bite my lower lip and slip my hand into the back pocket of my jeans.
I follow their steady steps to the garage.
Their deep, rumbling conversation and laughter drown out the sound of our shoes against the pavement.
It’s unbelievable how easily Cyrus befriends people—he connects with them in the blink of an eye.
I stop in front of the garage and glance over my shoulder. I scan the area, because I feel like I’m being watched. I’m looking for them—for Chase and Nikky.
However, the people I see don’t look like them.
Until now, I’ve buried my unanswered questions deep inside me. But at this moment, my curiosity breaks free. I want to know what the hell is going on between Chase and Nikky.
He’s always hated my sister. Nikky knew he went to jail, and still… she wasn’t surprised to see him.
“Grace!”
Cyrus’s deep voice startles me. My heart skips a beat, and a wave of warmth spreads through my body, scattering my thoughts. I look at the two men. Cyrus jerks his head toward the garage, thick with cool, heavy air that smells of gasoline and oil.
“Wow,” I blurt when I see the 1988 Harley. It’s in perfect condition. Both the black and chrome parts glint in the sunlight, and the leather seats are soft and supple to the touch, without a single crack.
“What do you think?” Cyrus steps beside me, childish joy and excitement shining in his eyes.
“It’s beautiful. This is exactly what you’ve been dreaming about.” I rest my hand on his hairy forearm, and my fingers slide over the dark hairs.
“Looks pretty good for its age.”
He circles the bike again.
“I haven’t ridden it much.” Tom lights a cigarette. “Then I got too old for it. My wife and kids aren’t too happy when this is my ride for a night out with the boys.”
“Can we take it for a ride?”
“Sure thing. But bring it back, or I’ll sell your Pontiac.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. That car is everything to him,” I reply instead of Cyrus.
Tom helps us push the bike out of the garage.
“Could you, please?” Cyrus hands his phone to Tom, then walks back to me.
“We need to capture our first ride together, baby.” He steps behind me and slides his hands over my waist—his strong arms feel like thick vines wrapped around my belly.
He widens his stance to seem a little less huge than he really is.
A huge smile spreads across my face, because I feel…
the taste of life in my mouth—pleasant, sweet, creamy, like chocolate.
We turn to the camera with wide smiles on our faces.
Tom takes several photos from different angles, then hands the phone back to Cyrus, seemingly pleased.
“Have a fun ride,” he says, giving a little nod.
“Thanks. Can we hit the road, then?”
“Wait! Let me grab my jacket from the car.”
While I run to the car, Cyrus pulls the bike over to the side of the road.
When I open the door of the Pontiac, a wave of suffocating heat slams into my face, making my eyes water and my throat go dry.
I grab the jacket—and drop it instantly when something sharp pricks my finger.
I’m much more careful the second time. When I pull it out, brown, dried petals tumble onto the asphalt.
I stare at the withered remains in shock.
My heart pounds in my throat, and an icy ache spreads through my chest, because there were definitely no petals in the car when we drove here.
It couldn’t have been the wind, either—the windows were closed.
Someone must have put them there while we were in the garage.
I look up and scan the area, searching for someone shady, someone hiding their identity.
It couldn’t have been Nikky. There’s only one other person who knows about the flowers.
Chase. He used to give me flowers after he abused me.
I tore them to pieces and watched them die—watched their shreds dry out minute by minute, day by day.
“Everything okay over there?” I jump when I hear Tom’s voice right behind me.
“Yeah…” I stutter. “I just got dizzy for a second. It’s hot in there.”
I flap the jacket around a bit. The black leather has soaked up the merciless sunlight and clings to the heat. I don’t want it to burn my skin.
I touch the jacket, and when I find it cool enough, I shrug it on quickly.
I yank up the zipper so fast it snags several strands of hair, but I don’t care about the sting on my scalp.
I slam the door of the Pontiac, nod goodbye to Tom, and hurry over to Cyrus.
The happiness and joy vanish from his face.
“Are you okay? You’re as pale as a ghost.” He touches my face and cups it in his warm palm.
“Yeah. I just got dizzy for a second. So, are we taking off?” I try to glance around without making Cyrus suspicious.
I flinch when he presses the helmet against my face.
“No!” I stop him. My heart is in my throat. “It makes me claustrophobic. Can’t we just go slowly?”
“I don’t want to put it on, either. I’ll take it back to the garage. But don’t ride off without me!” He winks at me. The pressure in my chest eases a little. When he kisses my brow, I force a warm smile and don’t take my eyes off him for a second as he walks to the garage.
He walks leisurely, with a certain grace. When it comes to men, Cyrus is as good as it gets. He’s nothing like the boys the media is obsessed with these days.
I slowly exhale the air trapped in my lungs. My face relaxes, and so does my body, as the adrenaline drains from my system. A wave of hazy weakness hits me.
I turn my head toward the bike. A strange feeling spreads through my body—something cold, blood-curdling. I’m trembling even though it’s July. I lift my gaze and look him over, inch by inch.
Chase is leaning against a thick tree, watching me. He’s far away, but I feel it in my bones that it’s him. I could recognize his body, his posture, anytime, anywhere.
My legs grow heavy, my heart races, my pulse throbs beneath my skin, and my blood surges with adrenaline and fear.
What would happen if I ran for it? Would he come after me? Would he catch me? Or would I make a complete fool of myself?
Chase seems to read my mind. He pushes off the rough bark of the tree and pulls his hands from the front pocket of his hoodie. His fingers curl into fists. I swear he’s smiling. He’s toying with me.