5. Bodie
Bodie
“Okay, fine ,” I snap, my hand still on my hip, pout locked in place like it’s gonna protect me from this arrogant jerk. “Check the stupid van. But if you touch anything that’s not yours, I’ll make you regret it.”
Henry’s dark eyes don’t waver, just hold mine with that steady, unshakeable calm that’s starting to get under my skin. Not in a bad way, exactly, which is the worst part.
It’s like he’s seeing right through my bravado, peeling back the layers I’ve spent years building.
“Two minutes,” Henry says, voice low, authoritative, like he’s used to giving orders and having them followed. “Stay close and don’t touch anything. I’ll sweep for bug, tracking devices, any obvious signs that the van’s been tampered with. Hold tight.”
I roll my eyes, but my stomach does this annoying flip.
Don’t touch anything?
Who does he think he is, my father?
Or worse… a Daddy?
The thought makes my cheeks burn, and I shove it down hard.
No way. I am not going there.
Henry’s just some overbearing guy who can’t mind his own business, and as soon as he’s done poking around Shred, I’m outta here.
Anywhere but Sunny Ferns, where creepy trucks and nosy strangers seem to be my new normal. And it’s not like I can’t usually handle myself. I’ve been in enough sticky situations over the years. But this is all taking it way too far.
I watch as Henry steps toward Shred’s open side door, his broad shoulders filling the space, and I trail behind, arms crossed, trying to look like I’m in control.
The streetlamp casts a weak glow over the lot, the ocean humming in the distance, but all I can focus on is Henry’s hands—big, steady, moving with this deliberate precision as he starts checking the van’s undercarriage.
He’s got a small flashlight, the beam darting over bolts and seams, like he’s done this a hundred times. Probably has, with that scar above his eyebrow and that “don’t mess with me” vibe.
It gets me thinking…
Military, maybe? Cop? Whatever he is, he’s too comfortable in my space, and it’s making my skin itch.
“Can you, like, hurry up?” I pout, kicking my feat in the dust.
Henry doesn’t reply. He’s quite clearly a man on a mission right now, and apparently basic politeness doesn’t come into the equation as far as he’s concerned.
I lean against Shred’s side, watching Henry work, and my mind slips to a memory I’ve tried to bury…
Sophomore year, Mr. Hargrove, the math teacher with a permanent sneer and a vendetta against me.
I was the kid who never fit—too loud, too restless, always doodling waves in my notebook instead of solving equations.
Hargrove had it out for me from day one, said I was “disruptive,” which was code for “not like the other boys.” I knew he had my cards marked and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.
Math was never my strong subject which probably didn’t help my cause either.
Anyway…
One day, he caught me passing a note—nothing bad, just a dumb joke about his sweater looking like a cat threw up on it—and he lost it.
Like seriously lost it.
Hargrove dragged me to the front of the class, made me empty my backpack on his desk while everyone stared.
“Boys like you always have something to hide,” he said, rifling through my stuff, tossing out my sketchbook, my candy bars, even the little keychain walrus I’d made in art class, a gift I was making for Poot.
I stood there, face burning, as he held up my juice box—my Little side’s comfort, even back then—and sneered, “What are you, five ?” The class laughed, and I wanted to disappear.
Unfortunately for Hargrove, he didn’t find anything bad or illegal in my backpack, but that wasn’t the point. It was about control, making me small, showing me who was boss.
From that day onward, I swore I’d never let anyone dig through my life like that again.
Henry’s different to Hargrove, though.
He’s not sneering, not shaming. His focus is clinical, almost protective, like he’s shielding me from something I can’t see.
All the same, it still feels like Hargrove’s hands in my bag, picking at my secrets. My chest tightens, and I swallow hard, forcing the memory back.
“Come on, Henry. Are you almost done?” I ask, sharper this time, my voice cutting through the quiet.
“Patience,” Henry replies, not looking up, his flashlight now sweeping the van’s interior, over my blankets, my pillows, Poot’s fuzzy tusks.
Henry doesn’t touch anything personal, just checks seams and corners, but I still feel exposed. It’s like he’s seeing too much—my Little side, my fear, the mess I’ve made of my life by trusting Vince.
And then there’s the other thing.
The thing I really don’t want to admit.
Henry’s hot. Like, stupidly hot.
That black T-shirt clings to his muscles like it’s painted on, and the way he moves, all controlled power, makes my traitor brain wonder what it’d be like to have those arms around me.
Not in a creepy way, but… safe. Steady. Like a Daddy who’d set rules and mean it, who’d make the world stop spinning out of control.
I hate that I’m even thinking it.
Vince was hot too, and look where that got me—running from a smuggler who’s probably got his goons tailing me right now.
Urgh . No more men. No more Daddies.
Just me, Shred, and Poot, like always.
“You’re wasting your time,” I say, trying to sound bored, but my voice wobbles. “There’s nothing in there. I’d know if someone messed with Shred. I’m not a doofus.”
Henry straightens, turning to face me, his flashlight clicking off.
His eyes lock on mine, and there’s that calm authority again, like he’s already three steps ahead.
“You didn’t know that truck was watching you,” Henry says, not accusing, just stating a fact. “You’re good at running, but you’re not good at spotting trouble. Like it or not, that’s why you need me.”
“ Need you?” I scoff, but it’s weak, and we both know it. My heart’s still racing from that truck, from Vince’s message, from the way Henry’s presence makes me feel like I’m teetering on an edge.
I want to tell Henry to get lost, to let me handle this, but the truth is, I’m scared. Scared of Vince, scared of that truck, scared of how alone I feel out here.
Henry steps closer, not crowding, but close enough that I can smell his scent—leather, salt, something warm and grounding.
“I’m almost done,” Henry says, softer now, like he’s talking to a spooked kid. “Just the dash and engine left. Stay put.”
I open my mouth to argue, but then I see it—his eyes flicker to Poot, still on my bed, and there’s no judgment, just a flash of something… maybe even an understanding ?
It throws me, makes my Little side ache for a second, wanting to curl up with Poot and let someone else take the wheel. But I shove it down, hard.
“Hurry up,” I mutter, turning away so he can’t see my face.
Henry moves to the driver’s side, popping the hood, and I’m left standing there, arms crossed, trying to ignore how his calm is both infuriating and weirdly comforting.
I’m planning my exit—gas up at dawn, head north, ditch Sunny Ferns and Henry and all this mess. I’ll be gone before he can play hero again, before I do something stupid like trust him.
“Hey, is that really necessary,” I begin, my sentence suddenly cut off…
A sharp crack splits the air, and the van’s side panel dents inward, a jagged hole punched through the metal. My scream catches in my throat, raw and terrified, as Henry’s head snaps up.
“Get down!” Henry barks, and before I can move, his hands are on me, firm but not rough, pushing me onto the mattress in the back of Shred.
I hit the blankets, Poot tumbling beside me, my heart hammering so hard I can’t breathe.
“W-w-w-w-what the hell!” I scream. “Henry!”
Another crack , and the van shakes, a second bullet slamming into the frame. I scream again, curling into a ball, my hands scrabbling for Poot.
“Vince!” I gasp, the name spilling out, my worst fear confirmed. He wasn’t bluffing. He found me, and now he’s shooting, and I’m gonna die in my own van, with my nursery rhymes still playing on that stupid cassette player.
Henry’s already in the driver’s seat, digging the keys out from my open bag like he owns the place. Shred’s engine roars to life, and we lurch forward, gravel spitting as he floors it.
“Stay low!” Henry roars, his voice cutting through my panic, steady as steel. “I’ve got this.”
I clutch Poot to my chest, squeezing my eyes shut, the van swerving as another shot rings out, this one missing, thank God.
My mind’s a blur—Vince’s green eyes, that ledger, the truck in the lot, Henry’s hands on me, pushing me down.
I want to scream, to fight, to do something , but all I can do is hold Poot and pray Henry knows what he’s doing.
The van speeds through the night, the ocean fading behind us, and I’m trapped, not just by Vince’s bullets but by the sinking feeling that I might have to rely on Henry for just a little bit longer…