Chapter 8
eight
GREER
It takes forever to get anywhere, but driving in rural Louisiana is much more peaceful than in any urban area. The two lane road separated by a faded yellow line is technically a highway, but there’s few other cars around me. Just cows, and an occasional gas station or Dollar Store.
My streaming music buffers, but Billie Eilish’s “Birds of a Feather” kicks back on mid chorus. I guess it’s a good thing my route is a straight shot if the cell service is unreliable. I’m not far outside of Parran, and Jude’s mentioned that the signal sucks in some of the surrounding areas.
Despite the fact I have boxes to pack for tomorrow’s move, I’ve taken the time to track down a romance novel from the nineteen-nineties that’s out of print.
Maw Maw lost her copy in Hurricane Katrina, so I’ve hunted down a replacement in the vain hope that it’ll keep her occupied while she’s recuperating from surgery on her left hand.
She gets bored, and goes looking for mischief. I’ll leave it with Aunt Marcel
At least I don’t have to worry about helping my aunt at the bakery. One of the employees is happy for the extra hours.
With a glimpse at the clock on my car console, I start to look for someplace to pull over.
Maw Maw is in her seniors' water aerobics class for another half hour, so I have some time to blow. I scan the signs on the occasional roadside businesses, intrigued by a place called “The Gator Pit” advertising a lunchtime cheeseburger special. There are only three parking spots in the front, each taken up by an SUV that’s cheekily parked sideways.
Gravel crunches under my tires as I follow the signs to park on the side of the cinderblock building. I kill the engine, grab my diabetes bag, and step onto the uneven lot. I’ve only taken a few steps when shiny metal catches my eye in the sunlight.
Jude is far from the only person who rides a motorcycle, but there’s a swooping in my stomach that coaxes me on.
As I take tentative steps forward, I make out three Harleys.
I move closer to inspect, distinguishing Jude’s bike from the others by the 68W decal on the tank.
That particular set of numbers is the military’s code for a combat medic.
It’s definitely Jude. I noticed the logo last night at the dock.
Why is he parked in the back? I peek around the corner, hoping to find Jude standing nearby, but only see an unmarked van parked at the rear door.
Just as I’m about to turn toward the front entrance, the door crashes open, and Jude walks out looking like the fourth Hemsworth brother—one with Liam’s killer hair and Chris’ Thor build.
Holy smokes, his shirt is off. I can’t make out any details yet, not with the plastic wrapped bundle he’s carrying in the way. There’s a loud thud before he re-emerges, wiping his sweat soaked brow.
I call out his name and Jude’s head jerks to the side, brows furrowed with an anger I've never seen in him.
My belly pitches. I’ve caught him at a bad time. He’s obviously busy. I give him a dismissive wave from afar, then gesture that I’m going inside.
What is he doing here in the middle of a workday? And what on earth was he carrying? It’s square bundles wrapped in plastic, so maybe food from the kitchen?
I’ll just run inside, get the lunch special, and leave without disrupting Jude any more than I already have.
The door to the tavern is unlocked, and the lights are on, but there are no patrons seated at the bar.
Glass tinkles together before a burly barkeeper appears, carrying a glass rack that looks heavy. “Can I help you?”
There’s a thud of a door. Jude hurries from the back, still covered in sweat. “Hey, Baby Doll. What on Earth are you doing here?” His tone is forced. I’m in his way.
“I stopped for lunch,” I explain. “I noticed your bike and went looking...”
As he uses a bandana to wipe his sweat again, I catch a glimpse of his exposed torso for the first time. The words on the tip of my tongue go forgotten, and my body freezes as I try to make sense of what I’m seeing.
Disorganized patches of angry, raised skin cover his top half. I study the puckered marks, trying to make sense of them.
Some are broad keloids, others straight white lines similar to stretch marks. “Motorcycle accident,” Jude explains in a flat voice. “The car going in the opposite direction didn’t want to hit a deer, so they struck me instead.”
What must have once been road rash covers a good bit of his abdomen. The worst of it is in his middle section. Glass, maybe?
“This looks recent.”
“It happened not long before I became a prospect,” he confirms. He laces our fingers into one another, working the bottom of his lip with his teeth while I stare.
“I was mowing the yard on a scorching hot day and needed gas. The stupidest thing I ever did was not change into more protective clothing.”
My mouth turns dry imagining how much pain he must have been in. I nod and look around the semi-empty room as if searching for what to say next. “You didn’t mention you’d been in such a bad accident recently.”
“I’ve healed. Life moved on, what’s done is done.”
“Hey, lady, you want a beer?” the barkeeper asks.
Jude’s eyes jerk towards him. “She’s driving,” he corrects.
“I need to get going anyway,” I answer, reaching for the bag I’ve left on the wooden tabletop. I don’t want to interrupt Jude. He’s mentioned in an earlier text that he’ll be busy today.
Already reaching for my hand, Jude offers, “Let me at least walk you out.” He leads me to the parking lot with a palm on my lower back. “The universe apparently wants us to see each other today.”
“Yeah, I guess. The only place that had the book I wanted was one town over from Parran.”
“Did someone recommend the food here or something?”
As easy as he’s trying to be, there’s still tension in his touch, his brow, his lips. “No, I had a few minutes to blow, that’s all.”
I shouldn’t be here, regardless of the reasoning. I think of my old waitressing job in Georgia, how I’d have felt if Jude showed up unannounced when I was insanely busy.
Reaching for my key fob, I unlock the car as we approach. I drop my hand, then start to open the door, eager for the awkward encounter to be over.
He drags me back to the warmth of his embrace. Lowering his voice, he trails a finger down my face and says, “I love that I got to see you today even if it was for only a minute.”
“It’s nice to see you too.”
He leans in again, his breath mingling with mine, and I press my hands against his left pec. “I didn’t even notice the Lovers tattoo until just now,” I throw out, tracing the black inked skeletal remains with my finger.
“It’s my favorite.” He reaches for my hand, then kisses the palm. “It’s a little funny how the universe keeps throwing us together now you’re home.”
“Blocking my car with your bike so we run into each other was pure cheekiness and not fate,” I accuse.
He laughs deep in his throat, then wraps his arms around my neck, and gives me a slow, simmering kiss I feel down to my toes. “Babe, everything about us is destiny.”
I watch his ass as he walks off, but the surgical scars and keloids on his back don’t go unnoticed. He’s suffered badly.
The fact that he still uses a bike as his main source of transportation says a lot about him as a person. He truly loves the freedom of the ride.