Mid-May 2017

Riley

Sitting in this pointless class was particularly wretched today. I had gotten my period during my earlier English class, spotting my white jeans and causing endless amusement to those around me as some jock had loudly pointed it out. I never attended high school, but imagine that’s what it felt like. I never attended grade school either.

My parents would have packed me off to boarding school if it wasn’t for my Gram. At the end of the day, she still holds the purse strings to grandfather’s trust and that was where their allegiance began and ended. Having a child to appease her; so original.

Gram demanded that I be raised at home, so they compromised with tutors for homeschooling; because there was no way they considered local public school acceptable. Mother seemed to have forgotten it was her alma mater. ..

Tutors, plural, since mother despised how attached I was to my first one. Ms. Betty was slightly older than mother and I adored her; having been pushed aside by my parents I was starved for affection. Gram is wonderful, but she has her own life and routine. I would stay at her house every Friday night growing up and I loved every minute of it.

I once made the mistake of asking Gram to let me live with her; I was five or six and she must have questioned me further. I remember her and mother screaming at each other the next day, but most of all I remember my mother slapping me when we got home, then my collarbone was broken when she grabbed my arm to pull me to my room.

I should have learned my lesson then.

I didn’t; and my eighth birthday was the last day I ever saw Ms. Betty. She had made the grievous error of showing up with a birthday present and balloons for me; as neither mother nor father had added my birthday to their calendars, they were unaware of the day. After that, my tutor was switched out about every year.

Shaking my head to clear old memories, I slip my sweater off to wrap that around my waist during a bathroom stop to assess the damage. Still, I was caught off guard by the number of snickers I heard upon entering class. Surely not everyone knew about my period already?

So here I sit. In a class that will not matter to my degree in eight months and two weeks. That is the exact amount of time until I turn eighteen. At that point, I can change my major from the parental units’ imposed and enforced Pre Med coursework, to Computer Info Systems. Luckily, the University requires similar core criteria for both majors and with electives needed, I was able to get a few programming classes in already. Not enough to raise any eyebrows when my report card was emailed to the parents, but baby steps…

At the end of the hour, I rush out of class, hoping that my workout bag is in the back seat of my truck. Sweats aren’t optimal but I do not have time to drive home and back in the two hours between now and my last class of the day. Surprised by the number of people gathered near the parking lot, Spring or not, it’s still chilly today. I dart around the last car and see my truck.

They weren’t all laughing at the blood spot on my jeans. Now, I really wish that was it.

In big black letters, someone wrote “JAILBAIT” along the side of my white Jeep Liberty.

I stumble as I see it. I don’t know how I manage to stay on my feet. All my blood has rushed to my face and I am about to burst into tears. My backbone returns when I hear the first giggle, I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing me wilt.

I will myself to keep walking and try to still the shaking that threatens to overcome my body. Afternoon class be damned.

I drive slowly through campus and then gun it once I’m past the gates. Ten minutes outside of school, I pull over. I cannot go home. They cannot see this. I start to shake in earnest as I pull out my cell; looking for directions to the closest “do it yourself” car wash, my tears start to fall. Jailbait, really?

One time, the ONE time, I was determined to feel like an actual teenager was my seventeenth birthday. There was a frat party that a freshman in my chemistry class told me about and as my parents were still in Boise, I made plans to meet her and her friends to go. My parents ended up getting home that night and with my car missing from the garage and tracked my phone.

I had been nursing some sort of punch, not that it had any juice in it, since arriving at the party. The girls I met up with had more to drink and we all started dancing, for the first time I felt alive. Having been so isolated from others my age for years, it was an awakening. Especially when a guy reached an arm out to pull me in for a dance. I don’t remember much about him, just very average but he wasn’t too grabby where he shouldn’t be touching, so I stayed in his arms.

Then the yelling started and the music cut off. My parents had arrived. My father, the lawyer, started yelling about contributing to the delinquency of a minor and molestation. He looked at me and pointed at the door. Following me out they started yelling about how I had shamed them, then he continued it the whole way home, while mother followed behind us in my SUV.

It was the beginning of this semester and the last time any of my classmates talked to me on purpose.

Snapping out of my musings in time to make the turn that the GPS was yapping about, I drive down a few more blocks to get to the car wash. I’ve lived in Rowansville my whole life but have never been to this part of town. There were random businesses scattered between empty-looking buildings and lots. The attendant on duty at the car wash merely smirks when he sees my truck, before heading back into his office. Driving past him to the furthest stall, I get out and start trying to figure out how this set up works.

A half an hour later I am pretty sure I’d made it worse. Finally giving in to my anger and hurt, I sink to the wet ground against the car, tears streaming down my face and sobs ripping through me. As my breathing calms, I open my eyes to the ground in front of me and see an extraordinary large pair of black leather boots.

Slowly looking up the body in front of me, past dirty jeans topped with a dark t-shirt and a leather vest stands the largest, scariest man I have ever seen. He is humongous, with shaggy brown hair and a smoothly shaved face that has a large scar running down half of it. He’s standing over me with a massive scowl on his face. All I can think is he can’t be real.

Surprise lights up his face as he removes his sunglasses to reveal startling blue eyes, without removing the cigarette from his mouth he says, “I am.”

Gulp. Did I say that out loud?

Gunner

Not a good day for this shit. I’ve got furniture projects piled up that need to get done and then Vice called needing me to run around to a few of the Club’s businesses to pick up our cash share for the month. The date for one of our less than legal operations had been moved up and we need the cash sooner rather than later.

Middle of the day on Tuesday looks deader than shit at the car wash, one vehicle parked near the end with no one working on it. Going into the office, Eddie was just closing the safe as I entered.

“Hey man, glad you’re here,” He leads off, while I light up a smoke.

I hate this slimy asshole and am pretty sure the feeling is mutual, so I can’t imagine what’s happened but I grunt and reach out for the bag he’s holding.

I flip through it to start the count, expecting silence to get this done quickly but he jumps back in.

“See, there’s this girl here and she’s like crying or some shit. What do I do? How do I get rid of her?” He asks.

“You bring your little side piece to work and think I give two shits if there’s fallout?” I say, separating out the piles.

He starts in again but I hold up my hand so I can get the count done. Last I’d heard Eddie was trying it with his baby mama again.

I nod as I finish the count and turn to go, he starts again. “It ain’t like that, Gunner. She drove in that truck over there. Some graffiti on the side, she was cleaning it but then she stopped and I heard her crying. Truck said Jailbait so I don’t want to go near her. Ya know, ‘cause Jessica or one of her friends could drive by and see me talking to another girl.”

Fuck. I really don’t need this bullshit.

Heading back to my bike, I secure the take, light a new smoke with the old one and mount up, fully planning to ride out. Then I hear a low sob and I pause, pointing the bike in her direction and knowing it’s a bad idea. I turn the bike off in front of her truck and walk around it.

The girl is sitting on the wet ground with her knees pulled into her chest, arms wrapped around them and her head tucked down. Shoulder length brown hair obscures her face but her uneven breathing bothers me; why, I don’t know.

I stand there, letting her get it out. Someone had indeed tagged her SUV with the word JAILBAIT and she hadn’t gotten much further than smearing the first few letters around.

A moment later she sniffles and slowly raises her head. Fuck. She is beautiful. High cheekbones, perfect ivory skin, a slightly crooked nose, and full peach lips. Her eyes are hidden under long lashes but even from here I can see how red and puffy they are. As her eyes drift up my body, eventually taking in my face; I get my first glance of her eyes and swollen or not, am taken aback not just by the amber color but by the pain I see within them.

Finally understanding the expression of an ‘old soul’, the only other place I have seen such pain is the battlefield. This is not about her car, her sobs had been built up over years and in this moment, looking down at her, I know she is too young and too good to have felt that type of pain and I will not allow it to stand.

“You can’t be real,” She says after staring at me intently.

I’m thinking the same thing. “I am.”

Her mouth drops open and she blushes. She’d really blush if she knew what I was picturing stuffed in that warm opening.

FUCK. I tense up as my eyes jump back to the word on the SUV.

“How old are you?” I can’t stop the anger in my voice, making her eyes widen before narrowing and suddenly looking more angry than defeated. Interesting…little girl has a backbone. “Sorry, it’s just, uh,” I hold my hand out to her to help her stand. She ignores it, standing on her own and turning to go.

“Wait. I know someone who can fix that. May take a few hours though,” I say before thinking. Rewarded by the hopeful look in her eyes, I smile and introduce myself. “Gunner Sorenson.”

She smiles shyly and says “I’m Riley,” as she sticks her hand out to me. I take her hand and holding it longer than is acceptable, I smile as she quickly shifts her gaze down and away from mine. “And I’m seventeen, hence...” she points to her newly decorated ride, while slowly removing her hand from mine.

“Follow me, I’ll get this taken care of,” I say, turning back to my bike. I stop when I hear her chuckle behind me. “What’s got you smiling, Sweetheart?” I ask, over my shoulder.

With laughter still in her voice, “That was very ‘Terminator’ of you! Except you’re a lot bigger than he is!”

Smiling back, I flick my cigarette away as I get on my bike, “I’m not exactly saving your life here, Sweetheart.”

“Today it kind of feels that way,” She responds quietly, getting in and starting her truck.

Damn, if I don’t feel even bigger now.