CHAPTER 5
Our subconscious is smarter than we are. It recognizes a kindred soul when it sees it.
As the hours bleed into one another, sleep evades me. There’s something about Lily—some shadow that lingers at the edges of my memory. It gnaws at me like an itch just under my skin.
My mind and body are too wired to rest, so I spend the better part of the night rifling through journals, sifting through scraps of notes, chasing the ghost of a connection that, at times, seems to only live inside my mind.
If it weren’t for the strings tying clues together on my wall and giving me evidence of Elle’s existence, I would think I’d gone insane. Maybe I have a little.
What was once a clean, organized assortment of feathers, breadcrumbs, and puzzle pieces has turned into total chaos. Like a man living on his last nickel, desperately searching for gold, I’ve scoured through all my notes in a frenzy.
There has to be an explanation for why this niggling unease hasn’t left me, even after smoking as much dope as I have to help numb the pain.
Around two thirty in the morning, I find it. A long-forgotten note I scrawled years ago, written while I’d been in medical rehab, spending half my days in physical therapy, the other half popping opioids to dull the knife, constantly driving into my skull.
Her hand in mine as she leads me through a forest. She’s constantly sweeping her hair out of her face. The blonde ends with dark-brown roots. The bruises marring her olive skin are fading. Dandelion seeds floating into the sky.
Is this it? What’s been driving me fucking insane? A few matching details? The swept hair, olive skin, and brown roots.
I caution myself not to read too much into those feathers. Hope can be deadly. And yet, those words give the longing for her that has refused to die, new life.
I crash for four hours and wake with the sun.
When my morning trickles by like motor oil through a corroded engine and I still have hours to kill, I head out back to my workshop.
There, I work on my latest side project—reshaping a storm-felled tree into a piece of furniture.
Something with purpose. With longevity. Something that, hopefully, will see many days to come.
It’s a gift for a man who helped me in my search for Elle—my old landlord.
First, I had to strip out the rot and damage. Then prepare and cure the wood, cutting it down into usable boards for the legs, seat, back, arms, and rockers.
The base rockers were the hardest to get right.
Matching the curves took time and patience.
Breathing life into each piece is how I spend my morning.
I finish carving in the small details and sand down the rough edges, smoothing every curve and contour.
The stain I apply last pulls out the grain and knots as if the tree’s memories are rising to the surface.
Watching it soak in and seeing it transform is deeply satisfying.
The scent of the sawdust and oil grounds me. Earthy, sharp, and familiar. But getting it off my skin and the sawdust out of my hair is another matter, so I head back inside to clean up thoroughly.
When I finally arrive at Wet Tips, it’s nearly noon.
With the kinetic energy still riding high, I immediately start on my to-do list. Maintenance shit.
Things that have needed my attention for months: a broken shelf in the storage area, dead or flickering bulbs, a loose railing, and a few wobbly or broken tables and chairs.
I fix what I can and jot down a list of replacements for the rest.
By the time I finish, I still have an hour to kill. So I sit back and drum my fingers on the desk, considering a nap on the couch in my office. I should sleep. Going without is bound to bring on a migraine. I know this, but with whatever’s coursing through my veins, I’m sure it’ll be for nought.
Instead, I pull the blueprints for the club’s renovation from the bottom drawer.
Mav sketched them up for me a while back, the original plans to turn this place into something classy, upscale.
At first, I put it on hold to offer some stability to the staff after the hell they’d been through with the previous owners.
Later, the plans got shoved to the back burner as the day-to-day grind—and my responsibilities to the HOCs—took over.
And for the past two years, as my migraines grew worse, I started to accept that I might not be around long enough to see the project through.
So these have been all but forgotten.
As I spread them across my desk, I can’t help but imagine the changes I’d make.
The possibilities. With deliberate care, I jot down updates in neat script, knowing Mav will have to decipher my handwriting later.
It might not be anytime soon—he’s got more than enough on his plate—but at least I can pass them on and see if additional changes are doable.
Checking my watch, I see it’s 2:03 p.m. My pulse speeds up as I make my way to the back entrance.
I’m leaning against the building, smoking a cigarette, when I hear the guttural rumble of a Harley in the distance.
Bodie rolls in. His blue shop shirt, with his name embroidered on it, is oil-stained, open over a wrinkled white tee, as if he just rolled out of bed and threw on whatever was on the floor.
“Why the fuck didn’t you call?” he asks as he dismounts.
Squinting against the sunshine, I give it to him straight. “Was hoping you forgot.”
He arches a brow over the rim of his sunglasses and spins his hat backward over his messy blond hair. “You think I’d forget a smokin’ hot chick that can turn you catatonic? Hell no, I gotta see this.”
Still leaning against the back of the club, boot heel against the stucco, arms crossed over my chest, I shoot him a dark look. Which only makes him laugh harder.
He removes his glasses and tucks them into his collar. “Be honest. How long’s it been since a chick with her clothes on made your dick stand up and take notice?”
I say nothing and look away. Apparently, that’s answer enough. Because he bursts into laughter. “Seriously?”
Sex is a daily offer, here, at the clubhouse, women walking around all but naked like it’s nothing, coming on to me, even though I haven’t shown them a lick of interest because none of it appeals to me.
My body’s been numb for a while. Shut down in a way I can’t describe or make sense of.
Except to say it feels like I’m older than I am.
“You realize how fucked up that is, right? What? You switchin’ sides on me?”
“Oh, shut the fuck up with that shit. I’m not gay, and you know I’ve got no problem with it. Just not for me, nor am I interested in anything on offer.”
“How long’s it been since you—” He swivels his hips and mimes fucking.
I rub my forehead, my irritation doubling. “Is nothing sacred to you?”
He shrugs. “Sex is sex. Ain’t nothin’ sacred ’bout it, unless it’s so good you see stars. Don’t know why people gotta act like it’s more than that.”
“This is why your sex life with Blaire has gone down the rabbit hole,” I shoot back.
He laughs, unapologetic. “Nah, man. I didn’t start that; she did. I’m just a horny bastard, and my wife’s got kinks I’ve tried to tell you about but—”
“Yeah, no. Keep that shit to yourself.”
Throwing his hands up, he says, “That. That’s exactly what you do.”
“What? Fuck. I don’t want to know.”
His fists curl at his sides, and his shoulders tense up. “Then don’t throw shade, man.”
I study him for a moment and read his body language, because I can’t see his eyes. Exhaling, I say, “Fine, I’m listening. But no details. Give me the gist of it.”
His built-up tension deflates, and the corner of his mouth kicks up.
“Blaire knows exactly what I’m doing when I’m not with her.
She acts all high and mighty in front of you all, but she goes off like a fuckin’ Roman candle when I whisper in her ear all the seedy shit I’ve been up to with other chicks.
It’s our thing. Don’t gotta make sense to anyone but us. ”
I give him a look because, in my opinion, that’s fucked up.
But their relationship’s always been toxic, and I don’t think he sees it for what it is—or would know what a good relationship looks like if it bit him in the ass.
Not that I’m the expert. But you can be sure I wouldn’t stick around if my woman wanted to stray.
I wouldn’t expect her to if I did either.
And you can be damn sure I wouldn’t want a woman who was okay with me going to another woman’s bed. It’s just not how I’m built.
“So, where is she? You said two, right? Thought I’d be late and miss the show.”
It’s nearly 2:35. I shrug as anxiety hits me. I hate this feeling of not knowing where she is or what happened. It messes with my head, pulling at old threads that are barely holding me together.
We both fall silent, waiting, leaning against the building. Bodie attempts to start a conversation several times, but when I don’t bite, he gives up and calls me an ornery ass.
Finally, a little Honda whips into the lot.
A second later, she jumps out of the car, flustered and breathless.
“I’m so sorry… I’m never late. I swear.” She’s distracted, reaching into her purse.
“A cop stopped me for speeding.” She produces an inhaler and takes a quick pull on it.
After taking a few steadying breaths, her gaze finally meets mine.
Bodie mutters, “Fucking Davis.”
“Do you have asthma?” My question catches her off guard, she looks down at the inhaler, then back to me. She hurries to stuff the inhaler back into her purse.
“Yeah, it’s no big deal. It won’t hinder me in any way.”
“That’s not why I was asking.” It’s another feather, and a big one at that. The way she’s studying my expression sets off little alarm bells pinging in my mind.
“Oh, yeah. I’ve had it my whole life. It’s manageable if I don’t get too worked up. But I keep one of these on me at all times.”
I nod, tucking these details away. “Good to know.”