23. Lucky Bastard
Chapter 23
Lucky Bastard
Rafe
We soar back to Never Harbor with the headlight of my motorcycle leading the charge. It’s too late, but I’m too high on Bonnie and good music to care that my engine is probably waking up the whole damn town.
I don’t know what came over me at the concert. Seeing Bonnie with Jonah sent me down a blacked-out spiral. This whole time, I’ve been teaching her how to do exactly what she was doing—saying what she needed. But I don’t think I anticipated being so irritated that what she needed didn’t involve me.
It’s selfish.
Irresponsible.
If we date?—
Do I want to date her?
No.
If I hurt the Never Harbor princess, my business is screwed. But weirdly, that’s something I can handle.
I’ve gotten myself into a lot of messes. I should have avoided this one, but too little, too late. If she breaks my heart, I’ll deal with the repercussions. I made my grave, so I’ll lie in it.
But if I break her heart … I don’t think I could live with myself. She’s too precious. Too pure.
She’s fascinating. Addictive.
I don’t know how to classify any of this. Maybe it’s best I don’t even bother.
My bike grumbles toward her cozy cottage at the end of a gravel road. It’s on the edge of a cliff, only partitioned by a white staircase leading down to the rocky shore below. I wonder if that’s safe. I wonder if I’m allowed to worry about that.
I’m not her boyfriend.
I cut off the headlight when we draw closer to lessen the impact of our arrival, slowly rumbling over the rocks until we reach her Jeep in the lot. It’s so dark; I think I see a sailboat out in the distance, but it could just be my eyes adjusting to the darkness. This house is only fifteen minutes from town, but it feels like the middle of nowhere.
I cut off the engine. Bonnie leans her helmet against my back, clutching my waist tighter, as if unwilling to let go. I squeeze her hands in reassurance, then remove them. I swing my leg over first, then grab her by the hips to pull her off next. I don’t need to see her face under the helmet to know she’s grinning. She loves when I do that.
I remove her helmet and instantly lean in to kiss her neck just because I damn well can. She grips the zipper of my leather jacket to keep herself upright. It’s not a kiss on the lips. I know my limits, but I’ll bury myself in her scent as long as she’ll let me. Coconut shampoo. Massachusetts wind.
“Thanks,” she says. “For inviting me. I had fun.”
Fun.
The word feels too flippant now. I hate that.
I lean back, taking her chin between my thumb and forefinger. “Hey.”
“Hmm?”
“New request. When you’re with me, you’re only with me. Got it?”
She blinks and tongues her cheek, nodding in defiance. “Only if you promise the same.”
I smirk. “Like I said, I’m a one-woman kind of man.”
I might be a you kinda man.
Her smile beams back at me, and it doesn’t disappear until I’m back on my bike, revving down her gravel driveway and back toward town.
I park in a garage one mile from Main. I rent the space from Starkey; it’s just big enough for my bike and art show supplies. It’s close enough to be convenient to Ink & Tide. Gently rolling down the garage door, I lock it and begin the short trek to my apartment.
I love Never Harbor most when it’s a little past midnight. The waves that are shy during the day instead give hushed whispers to me at night. It’s peaceful. I take the sidewalk closest to the shore, pulling out my phone to take a picture of the looming crescent moon. I send it to my mom. She’s always liked the coast.
I’m unsurprised to find her awake.
Mom: beautiful!
Rafe: Can’t sleep?
Mom: working nights again :)
Rafe: That’s not safe.
Mom: i’ve done it for months baby
Months?
My gears start to churn, and I think of the last time I saw her. Has it really been months? I have to slow down before I get ahead of myself.
Rafe: There’s an art show there in a couple of weeks. Wanna do dinner?
Mom: if i get time off :)
Rafe: Just be available at around 8. We can make it quick if you’re working.
It’s late, but I try to call anyway. She doesn’t answer. I pull in a deep breath, pocket my phone, and exchange it for my pack of cigarettes. Flicking my pink lighter that Leo the Magician gave back, I inhale in the bad and exhale out the worse.
But the relief just isn’t the same. It tastes bitter and thick when my tongue wants something far … sweeter.
The tang of wetness.
The sound of breathy moans.
The smile of ecstasy when a certain redhead orgasms on my tongue.
I want her again.
I need her again.
But not just like that. I need her . There’s the way she talks to others. The inherent charm. The way Leo fell for her personality just as easily as I did.
When we left, Leo placed a palm on my shoulder and murmured in my ear, “Lucky bastard.”
I guess I am.
But I see the way Bonnie eyes my motorcycle and my tattoos, the way she peers up at me like I’m some god among men, and I wonder just how lucky I am.
I wonder how long it’ll take for her to realize that I’m just a man. A flawed man with a nicotine addiction and a mural of art on my skin that will only multiply because, damn it, I love it and I know her family probably wouldn’t. The son of a piece-of-shit, cheating father. The son who abandoned his mother and hometown the first chance he got. A man who won’t risk replicating his parents’ tragic ending.
A man who is already in too deep.
What type of man am I really?
I pass a nearby trash can and bury my cigarette butt on the lid’s ashtray.
Leo’s right. This’ll be the death of me, if Bonnie isn’t first.
I stroll past an uphill road with a line of townhomes and startle as one door opens. I stop in my tracks when a familiar face—a guilty face—strides down the stairs. Each step she descends creaks under the weight of whatever decision she made.
Izzy, with her frizzy blonde hair tied up in a bun, wearing an oversize, wrinkled T-shirt that isn’t hers, creaks open the iron gate to Peter Davies’s house.
I give a sharp whistle.
Izzy’s head pops up, and she squeaks, holding her hand to her heart.
I nod in solemn acknowledgment. After a moment, she dips her chin back.
I walk to the storm drain. She crosses the street and meets me there.
We say nothing to each other for a few moments, until I murmur, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
She tongues her cheek. “I think so.”
It’s the first time she’s seemed uneasy when discussing Peter. I don’t like it.
“And you?” she asks.
“What about me?” I mumble.
Our voices are echoing too loud in the empty Never Harbor air. I now worry the man living in that townhome can hear me. I don’t fear Peter Davies, but I’m not in the mood to fight if—or when—he finds out I had my face between his sister’s thighs just one hour ago.
“How’d the concert go?” she asks in a low tone. “Did you use the extra ticket?”
I kick my boot and nod. “Yeah.”
I don’t say more. I don’t have to. Izzy is an intelligent woman.
Realization dawning, she swallows and fiddles with her key fob.
“Well … how’s that going then?” she whispers.
“Hell if I know,” I respond on a shrug. “But … I’ve definitely got a problem.”
The corner of her lip twitches into a smile. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She licks her lips nervously and sighs. “I might too.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I grumble.
She slaps my arm, making me yelp, only to then hold a finger up to her lips.
“Why are you shushing me ?” I ask on a chuckle.
“Because it’s late,” she whispers.
“Because you’ve been in love with”—my eyes dart to the townhome—“ him … since I met you.”
“Shut up,” she hisses.
A breeze blows past. We stand in the tense silence until she finally gives an irritated sigh.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s nothing,” she says, shaking her head. “Nothing. Want a ride?” she asks, pointing her keys toward her green Volkswagen sitting outside Peter’s house.
“No, I gotta clear my head.”
“Okay … well …” Her words fade off.
We don’t need to say what we’re thinking. We never do.
I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine.
I won’t speak of this again if you don’t either.
I don’t like it. But Izzy’s an adult, and if she’s having late nights at Peter Davies’s house, then who am I to judge?
I have a weak spot for a Davies sibling as well.
Maybe we’re both fucked.
Those damn Davies kids.