Lynn

It's almost ten AM and I'm only just driving Scar to get his bike. By no definition of the word, will I be home "soon" like I promised Mom I would be. I should feel worse about that, but how can I? The sun is out, everything is sparkling, Scrap will be released from the animal hospital later today, and the news on the radio just said that they've managed to stop the raging fire threatening the area and have called off the red alert. Apparently there are now only a few isolated patches of the fire left to extinguish.

Scar is sitting by my side, still kinda grumpy since he's clearly not a morning person, but it's endearing to watch him grumble. Besides, I have enough energy in the mornings for the both of us. I love dawn, I love watching the sun rise, I love the freshness of the world as it begins to wake after a full night's sleep.

And probably most importantly, for the first time in twelve years, I feel like a woman. A woman with a body that's made to be worshipped, not used and abused. A woman who enjoys offering her body to be worshipped. Last night, despite all his roughness and gruffness, I never, not for a split second, believed that I was just a vessel for his pleasure, a thing to be used and discarded, which is how my ordeal made me feel.

For the second time in my life, the man sitting next to me, being very quiet and grimacing as he squints from the glowing sun in his eyes, saved me.

"That's great news that the fire is under control," I say.

He grunts something in answer, but I can't for the life of me figure out what he said.

"What?" I ask, giggling as I do.

"There'll be another one soon enough," he says. "There always is. California's that kinda place."

"Alright, Grumpy," I say as I park the car next to his bike at the parking lot of the animal hospital. "Why don't you go wake up fully, and I'll see you later in a good mood."

He chuckles and runs his hand down my cheek. "You wanna put me in a good mood? Then how about we go back to the house?"

I shake my head, but smile and lean my cheek against his palm. He didn't want to leave the bed yet, I forced him too, and that's a huge part of the reason for his grumpiness right now.

"We'll see each other soon," I say. "I'll just go home, then come back here to pick up Scrap, and then we'll have the whole day together at the ranch."

He nods along slowly. "Yeah, about that. I got some things to take care of first. It could take all day or it could take an hour, I don't know. But I'll see you tonight, count on that. I'll pick you up and we'll go for a ride."

Back when I was just a waitress and he was just a biker who'd come in to talk to me every day, we sometimes talked about going for a ride. I said I wanted to know what it was like, he'd invite me, and I'd make up an excuse. Thinking back, me saying no to a ride was probably the reason—or at least part of the reason—why he never asked me on a date. But now I still want to go for that ride, and nothing is stopping me. Nothing except the fact that my chest still freezes when I hear a Harley and I get nauseous right after hearing it. But this is Scar. This is my savior. And I won't refuse him again.

"OK," I say and smile, since he's frowning at me now, probably because I took too long to answer. "Pick me up at the ranch and we'll go."

"I'd love to go for a ride with you," I add, since the expression on his face is telling me he's not entirely satisfied with my answer.

He grins, smiles almost, then kisses me so deeply and so thoroughly I feel as though the morning sun is now inside me too, calling everything awake, warming things that have been left forgotten in a cold, freezing darkness for far too long.

And as I watch him ride away later, there's no nausea, no fear, only the freshness of a new dawn, of a new life, one where memories are just that—things that were done, that happened, and that can and will be forgotten. For the first time in more than ten years, I dare to believe that love in all its forms is possible for me too.

* * *

The house is quiet as I enter and smells sickly sweet, like from flowers only worse. Mom is probably in the garden shed, which she uses as her workshop and I should go find her, but she's not gonna be happy with me, and I'm too happy for an argument.

"You said you'd be home soon, Lynn," she says from behind my back, before I even reach the stairs leading upstairs.

Her hair is a mess, and she's wearing her favorite robe, which she's owned since I can remember and looks it, over the clothes she must've worn yesterday, because they're very crumpled. There are dark blue bags under her bloodshot eyes, which are glowing with an unnatural brightness. That only ever means one thing. I know now why the house smells sickly sweet.

"I'm sorry, but I was having fun," I say.

"Having fun?" she says, more to herself than to me, and retreats back to the living room where she came from.

I sigh and follow her. As I enter the living room, she's already pouring herself another tumbler of whiskey, mixing it with the amaretto liqueur she likes so much and which is the source of the sweet smell all over the house. This isn't her first drink since last night, that's for sure.

Mom started drinking after my dad died. I'm pretty sure his death was the reason. She's tried to quit many times over the years, but it never sticks, not for long anyway. I know that I only added and continue to add to the problem, but I don't feel guilty over it like I used to. Well, I feel a little guilty right now, as I sit down on the sofa next to her.

"So, who were you having so much fun with that you forgot to call me?" she asks taking a long sip of her drink.

I shouldn’t have said, “fun”. I did that because I was planning on telling her about Scar, but going by her curt tone and that unnatural, angry gleam in her eyes, I think she’ll try to spoil it for me. And last night was too perfect to allow that.

"We got to talking up at the ranch after the work was done, you know about the future and everything, and pretty soon it was two AM," I start saying, the words sounding very stiff as they leave my mouth, because I don't like lying. "You already know that Bethany is thinking of selling, but she doesn’t really want to, so we were coming up with alternate plans. And then it was so late and I was too sleepy to drive home, so I just stayed there. I should’ve called. I'm sorry for making you worry."

That could all be true. But if that's how things had gone last night, I'd never have forgotten to call her and tell her I'm not coming home.

"Why didn't you call me?" she asks shrilly, picking up on it, but not quite, because she's drunk. "Do you know what I went through when you went missing? I almost went mad. I was almost hospitalized because I couldn't eat or sleep or do anything but wait by the phone for news about you."

And do you know what I went through? I was hospitalized for three months afterwards, and I've been a prisoner of those bad memories ever since. Until last night.

I don't say any of those things, because I know it's the alcohol talking right now, not Mom, and I probably wouldn't be in any position to take my life back last night, if she hadn't been by my side, propping me up for the last twelve years.

"I really am sorry, Mom, it slipped my mind," I say. "But I'm a grown woman after all and shouldn't have to tell my mom where I am every second. Nothing's gonna happen to me ever again."

I can be certain of that because Scar's with me now. He promised me as much, and I don't plan of letting him go anytime soon. I can't tell her that yet, but by the look on her face I just said the wrong thing anyway.

"How can you be so sure? Those men could still be after you? There's a big gang of bikers just two towns away from here," she says, telling me what she's told me a million times, since she found out about that biker gang. When we first came here, we didn't know about them, and by the time we found out we had already started our lives here, so we stayed anyway. But she worried.

Yet she had no reason to. I think Scar is a member of that gang. He still doesn't tell me much about his life, but I sorta read that between the lines of what little he lets slip. So he was near me all along, as though still watching over me, even though neither of us knew it. With us, it's fate, I have little doubt about that left.

"I'm not worried about them Mom, and you shouldn't be either," I say and continue smiling at that thought. "I was never really in any danger after I was freed, you know that."

"Have you completely lost it now, Lynn?" she snaps. "You were in no danger because we always took every precaution. How can you not worry?"

I don't stop smiling, because I'm happy and even her dark mood and aggressiveness can't spoil it. I won't let it spoil it. I've lived with the paralyzing terror of what happened to me twelve years ago every day of those years. My mom going off like this—which isn't a once in a while occurrence— reminding me of it, warning me, perpetuating my fear even after twelve years of living such a boring life I'm sure old people in nursing homes had more fun than me, is a big part of the reason why I couldn't let go of it, couldn't forget it, and I'm only just fully realizing this.

It's not her fault and she wasn't doing it on purpose, so I don't blame her. She had to deal with it too. But it's time I start living my own life. I appreciate all she's done for me, but it's time I stand on my own two feet.

"No, Mom, I'm thinking very clearly," I snap instead of telling her all that, since I don't even know how to begin saying it.

She blinks at the harshness of my tone.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you last night. It was a mistake, but it happens," I say and stand up, since this conversation is over. "Now get some sleep, Mom. You look very tired, and I have to get back to the ranch."

She opens and closes her mouth a few times, but makes no sound. Her eyes aren't gleaming with that alcohol-induced anger anymore though. She finally nods.

"You're right," she says. "I am very tired. We can talk more tonight. I'm making Quiche Lorraine. You like that, right?"

It's my favorite dish and she knows that.

"Yeah, I do," I say anyway.

But I don't add that I won't be home for dinner. I'll call and tell her later, because if I bring it up now, she'll go off again, and I'm already not nearly as happy and carefree as I was when I woke up this morning.