13. Darla
Darla
Coffee shops in downtown Lexington smelled like wet dog, but at least they didn’t judge you for what you wore or who you walked in with.
Axel was already waiting outside when I rolled up, pacing like a caged zoo animal, his boots stomping the frozen spit of the sidewalk with each lap.
He wore his cut even in the cold of winter—worn leather, faded patches, the collar stained with old sweat and rain—but the way he kept yanking his sleeve down to cover the yellowed bruises said he wasn’t proud of the last fight he’d lost. Or maybe it was the first fight he hadn’t started.
He saw me, and I could feel his pupils go wide even from a block away, the way a dog perks up at the sound of the can opener.
I had on my best “fuck you, Dad” outfit—low-rise jeans, a halter with just enough fabric to pretend I cared, and a thrift store jacket that still reeked of patchouli from its last owner.
My cross necklace glared against my skin, a beacon of hypocrisy that I didn’t bother tucking in.
I wanted him to see it. I wanted everyone to see it.
Axel didn’t greet me with a hug or a handshake, just a nod and a look up and down, like he was running diagnostics. His cheek was swollen where the stitches had been, but the bruising looked almost pretty in the early winter light.
“Nice shiner,” I said, tucking my hands in my pockets so I wouldn’t grab his face.
“Wait’ll you see the other guy,” he said, voice shredded by Marlboros and regret. “You want coffee or just the illusion of being awake?”
We went inside, instantly swallowed by the smell of burnt espresso.
The barista was a guy with purple hair and an eyebrow ring that looked infected.
He gave us a once-over and then, clocking Axel’s jacket, gave us a twice-over, like he couldn’t decide if we were going to rob the place or fuck on the pastry case.
We took the corner booth, far from the windows, the paint on the Formica table bubbling up like it was about to confess to something. Axel ordered black coffee. I ordered green tea to keep up appearances.
The silence between us felt less like awkwardness and more like a prelude. He tapped his finger on the rim of his mug, never looking away from me. I licked the sugar off the tip of my spoon and met his stare. If he was waiting for me to say something real, he’d have to wait.
“Don’t you ever get sick of people staring at you?” I finally asked.
He shrugged. “They can stare, but they can’t touch.” He cracked his neck, then leaned in. “You don’t exactly blend in, you know. With the necklace and all.”
I let the cross dangle, daring him. “Some people wear it because they believe. Some people wear it because their dad’s the pastor and it’s part of the uniform.”
He snorted. “And which are you?”
“I’m still figuring that out,” I lied.
He took a long sip of coffee, wincing as it hit the cut inside his lip. “Your old man know you’re here?”
“Are you kidding? He still thinks I’ve been hitting the books at the library. I even left my college email open on my laptop so it looks like I’m studying macroeconomics.” I grinned. “He’s probably pacing the parlor right now, rehearsing the father-daughter guilt trip he’ll give me at dinner.”
Axel’s jaw ticked. “He ever hit you?” He asked it flat, like he was just running down a checklist.
“No. He just talks until you want to rip your ears off.”
“Sometimes that’s worse,” he said, and I saw something move behind his eyes, quick and angry, then gone.
I shifted, feeling the seat vinyl bite into the backs of my thighs. “What about you? Where’d you learn to fight like that?”
He shrugged again. “You pick things up. Or you don’t make it past twenty.”
“That’s not an answer,” I pressed. “Were you Army, or just trouble?”
He looked at me for a long time, like he was trying to see if I could handle the answer.
“Something like trouble, I suppose,” he said.
“Mostly, I just got tired of the same four walls closing in every day. I bounced around—Memphis, Knoxville, a couple of months working on a fishing boat in Florida. Slept under a lot of overpasses. Never really belonged anywhere, so the club felt as close as I’d get. ”
He picked up his mug, held it in both hands. His knuckles were scabbed over, the tattoos half-obscured by purple and brown. “You’re probably the first person I’ve told that to in five years,” he said.
“Do I win a prize?” I said, but the joke fell flat.
He reached across the table and touched the back of my hand. Just a single finger, barely there. It was the closest thing to intimacy I’d felt since my mother died, and it hit me like a punch.
We talked for another hour, our stories sloshing out like cheap wine.
I told him about the time I switched the grape juice for wine at First Communion and got half the church kids hammered before noon.
He told me about the guy he decked in a Nashville bar for calling him a “pedal-pusher,” even though Axel couldn’t remember if he’d been wearing shorts or if it was just biker code for “asshole.” Every story turned into a confession, and every confession made it a little harder to remember which version of myself I was supposed to be.
The only time we broke eye contact was to watch the barista refill the creamers or to glance out the window at the street. I kept expecting to see my dad’s car or some undercover stooge with binoculars, but all I saw was the usual parade of sad drunks and lost souls.
When the check came, Axel paid in cash, counting out the bills with his left hand while his right lingered on the rim of his cup.
We sat like that for another minute, two strays pretending the world wasn’t about to chew us up and spit us out.
I wanted to ask if he’d kiss me, or if he’d take me back to his room above the bar and fuck me raw again, but something about the moment felt too sacred for that.
Or maybe I just didn’t want to be the one who broke it.
“I should go,” I said. “He’ll be sending the bloodhounds.”
He nodded, but didn’t move. “You safe going alone?”
“Only if you don’t follow me,” I shot back.
He grinned, but his eyes stayed sad. “I’ll be around.”
I stood, shouldering my purse, and for a second we just looked at each other, waiting for the next disaster to happen. I left the mug on the table, still half-full, and walked out into the blinding cold. I didn’t look back because I knew if I did, I’d never leave.
Out on the street, I caught a glimpse of a battered black sedan idling at the corner. It was probably nothing. Or maybe it was everything. But before I could make it more than a few steps, Axel was at my arm.
We didn’t say much as we walked. The wind carried a greasy chill, whistling through dead magnolias and the lopsided split-rail fencing that marked the edge of Sutter Park.
Kids used to call it Scutter Park, because after sundown, the only ones who braved the playground were rats, junkies, and the feral cats that bred under the carousel.
The swings hung sideways, the rubber seats tangled in each other like drunks in a bar brawl, and every bench was tagged in Sharpie or slashed with a box cutter.
My dad said no good Christian had any business near this place. That was the whole reason I loved it.
We found a bench facing what used to be a duck pond.
I brushed aside the cigarette butts and sat, shivering even though the sun was bright enough to bleach the graffiti.
Axel settled beside me, close enough that our hips touched.
His heat bled through his jeans, a low-voltage current that made my hands go numb for a second.
He looked at me with the side-eye of a man used to checking for predators. “I missed waking up to you this morning.”
I didn’t know what to say. Most guys didn’t want to wake up next to you. After the sex, they wanted to split.
“That could get us in a lot of trouble,” I said.
He snorted. “Hasn’t stopped us so far.”
We watched a pair of squirrels pick at a nearby trash can. I felt his hand brush my thigh, just a ghost of contact. For a second, I thought about grabbing it, lacing our fingers together like a real couple. Then I remembered whose daughter I was.
“I could stay here all day,” I said.
“You should,” he said. “Never know when you won’t get another chance.”
That’s when I saw them. Four shadows, moving through the play structure like they owned the place.
Three in cheap windbreakers, one with a limp and a haircut straight out of a Marine recruitment poster.
Even from fifty yards, I recognized the limp.
Silas “Sarge” Burrows. My father’s personal bulldog, always the first to volunteer when something ugly needed doing.
They fanned out, slow and casual, making a show of not looking at us. I tensed, but Axel just set his elbows on his knees and stared straight ahead.
“You know them?” he asked, low and quiet.
I nodded. “They work for my dad.”
“Thought so.”
The four of them circled the bench, not close enough for a mugging but close enough that you could smell the plastic cologne and the tobacco sweat. Sarge took point, his arms folded over his chest, boots planted wide.
“Morning, Princess,” he said, voice like broken glass. “Your daddy sends his regards.”
I wanted to say something smart, but my throat went dry.
Axel stood, slow and deliberate. I saw the change come over him, the way his shoulders squared and his hands relaxed at his sides, open and loose. It was the way animals acted when the killing started—not angry, just resigned.
“You want something?” he asked. “Or you just here to do a meet and greet?”
Sarge grinned. “We’re here to collect a debt.”
Axel laughed. “Don’t owe you shit, Sarge.”
“Oh, but you do.” Sarge turned to me, his smile going wolfy. “Unless Darla wants to come quietly?”
Axel stepped between us, blocking the view. “Get the fuck out of here.”