Page 83 of Grace

Cyrus pulls up to the curb, gets out of the car, and immediately shakes Tom’s hand. The older man is wearing black shorts and a short-sleeved black shirt, unbuttoned to the middle of his chest. Gold chains hang from his neck, and the silver hairs stand in stark contrast to his sun-tanned skin. He wears his long white hair in a ponytail, and his white beard hangs below his chin.

I follow Cyrus’s lead: I step up beside them and stick my hand out to the guy. He looks me up and down. I feel a little uncomfortable in the new clothes, but when he looks into my eyes… I see pity there. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth—after all these years, I’m still offended when people seem to “know” who I am because of my past.

I bite my lower lip and slip my hand into the back pocket of my jeans. I follow their steady steps to the garage. Their deep, rumbling conversation and laughter drown out the sound of our shoes against the pavement. It’s unbelievable how easily Cyrus befriends people—he connects with them in the blink of an eye.

I stop in front of the garage and glance over my shoulder. I scan the area, because I feel like I’m being watched. I’m looking for them—for Chase and Nikky.

However, the people I see don’t look like them.

Until now, I’ve buried my unanswered questions deep inside me. But at this moment, my curiosity breaks free. I want to know what the hell is going on between Chase and Nikky.

He’s always hated my sister. Nikky knew he went to jail, and still… she wasn’t surprised to see him.

“Grace!”

Cyrus’s deep voice startles me. My heart skips a beat, and a wave of warmth spreads through my body, scattering my thoughts. I look at the two men. Cyrus jerks his head toward the garage, thick with cool, heavy air that smells of gasoline and oil.

“Wow,” I blurt when I see the 1988 Harley. It’s in perfect condition. Both the black and chrome parts glint in the sunlight, and the leather seats are soft and supple to the touch, without a single crack.

“What do you think?” Cyrus steps beside me, childish joy and excitement shining in his eyes.

“It’s beautiful. This is exactly what you’ve been dreaming about.” I rest my hand on his hairy forearm, and my fingers slide over the dark hairs.

“Looks pretty good for its age.”

He circles the bike again.

“I haven’t ridden it much.” Tom lights a cigarette. “Then I got too old for it. My wife and kids aren’t too happy when this is my ride for a night out with the boys.”

“Can we take it for a ride?”

“Sure thing. But bring it back, or I’ll sell your Pontiac.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. That car is everything to him,” I reply instead of Cyrus.

Tom helps us push the bike out of the garage.

“Could you, please?” Cyrus hands his phone to Tom, then walks back to me. “We need to capture our first ride together, baby.” He steps behind me and slides his hands over my waist—his strong arms feel like thick vines wrapped around my belly. He widens his stance to seem a little less huge than he really is. A huge smile spreads across my face, because I feel… the taste of life in my mouth—pleasant, sweet, creamy, like chocolate.

We turn to the camera with wide smiles on our faces.

Tom takes several photos from different angles, then hands the phone back to Cyrus, seemingly pleased.

“Have a fun ride,” he says, giving a little nod.

“Thanks. Can we hit the road, then?”

“Wait! Let me grab my jacket from the car.”

While I run to the car, Cyrus pulls the bike over to the side of the road. When I open the door of the Pontiac, a wave of suffocating heat slams into my face, making my eyes water and my throat go dry. I grab the jacket—and drop it instantly when something sharp pricks my finger. I’m much more careful the second time. When I pull it out, brown, dried petals tumble onto the asphalt.

I stare at the withered remains in shock. My heart pounds in my throat, and an icy ache spreads through my chest, because there were definitely no petals in the car when we drove here. It couldn’t have been the wind, either—the windows were closed. Someone must have put them there while we were in the garage.

I look up and scan the area, searching for someone shady, someone hiding their identity. It couldn’t have been Nikky. There’s only one other person who knows about the flowers. Chase. He used to give me flowers after he abused me. I tore them to pieces and watched them die—watched their shreds dry out minute by minute, day by day.

“Everything okay over there?” I jump when I hear Tom’s voice right behind me.

“Yeah…” I stutter. “I just got dizzy for a second. It’s hot in there.”