INDIE

November

“Hey girl,” Kimba says, ringing up a regular’s cheque. “You’re late.”

“I know.” I head for the back of our tiny café and hang my bag up on the hook, switching it out for my black apron that reads, ‘Death Before Decaf’. “Sorry, the trains were down.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. I’m just messing with ya because I can,” she says, winking at me. Her bright red lipstick is perfect, even at 8:00am. She’s sort of an unconventional boss: tattoos everywhere, jet-black Dita Von Teese-style hair, pin-up dresses in crazy prints, gauges, piercings—the list is endless. I love her take-no-prisoners attitude when it comes to the long line of men queueing up to get their morning coffee. She’s gorgeous, and she owns that, a serial flirt, but not a whore. If I felt anything even remotely sexual towards women—and really, considering all I’ve been through it’s a wonder I haven’t switched teams, already—I’m sure I’d have myself a little girl crush. It’s not like she hasn’t propositioned me enough times. Kimba’s one of those rare people that swings every way. Man, woman, she’s not fazed about gender, only personalities.

“See you, ladies, tomorrow,” Michael says.

“Looking forward to it, Mr Wilcox.” Kimba winks, blowing him a kiss and then turning to me once he’s gone. “And speaking of Cocks … this morning when he came in, I swear to god he was stiff as my grandmother is rigid, and it was huge. You picked a hell of a day to be late, lady.”

I laugh, despite how uncomfortable this subject makes me. The truth is, in the month I’ve worked here, Kimba’s never been particularly good with boundaries. I didn’t think I’d be okay sharing a space again with someone who hugged me, or casually touched my shoulder when they walked past, but surprisingly I am. Kimba makes me feel better; less lonely somehow. And already she feels like more than just a boss—she’s a friend, which is something I don’t really ever remember having before. Not like this.

 Of course, she knows next to nothing about me. Aside from what the media had broadcast all over the airways when I showed up on my parents’ doorstep, looking as if I’d just escaped a horror movie, covered in blood, with first-degree burns on my feet and left leg, and a severe case of “psychogenic amnesia”.

I spent a month recovering at home, seeing every shrink my parents could throw at me, applying every cream, balm and whatever other product my mother wanted to ply my scars with, as if she could erase them. As if they could be as easily removed as lifting a stain from a shirt.

I couldn’t stand the silence in that house. I couldn’t stand to look at the crucifix over the mantel in our lounge room. I couldn’t see that wooden cross with its painted sorrowful little Jesus without seeing the warehouse, or the church on fire, or the pain on biker’s face before I walked away. After the month was out, I went and found myself a studio apartment in the city, and I moved out the very next day. I haven’t seen them since. Their daughter returned to them safe and sound, but she wasn’t the same, and neither one of them concerned themselves enough with trying to help me get better. They were just keeping up appearances.

“Wow,” I say, realising Kimba is still waiting for my reply. “I’m kinda sad I missed that.”

“I knew you would be,” she says and hurries back to the register to serve another of our regulars when he steps up to the counter. I glance at the line of customers and head to my usual place behind the coffee machine to start making orders. Several hours later, Kimba leaves to run some errands, and while we’re slow, I step outside to wipe down the tables out front. I’m just getting done with the second, when I feel as if I’m being watched. I straighten and glance at the customer behind me.

He’s sitting at the small table that was unoccupied just moments ago. He lights up a cigarette, and I inhale sharply, missing the scent of him, the sight of him, drinking in every detail I can from his black jeans and leather jacket to his boots and hair, and the stubble that’s regrown on his face.

“You can’t smoke here,” I murmur.

“I’m out-fuckin’-side,” he says.

I nod. “I know. Still can’t smoke here.”

He shakes his head and stubs the cigarette out on the sole of his boot. The biker I knew would have done it anyway, proving to me that I’m not the only one who’s changed.

“What are you doing here, Daniel?”

“I been askin’ myself the same thing all mornin’.” Reading my confusion, he tilts his chin to the park across the street. “Been psyching myself up all fuckin’ day.” He shakes his head and gives a bitter laugh. “All fuckin’ week, actually.”

I sit down heavily on the stool beside him.

“You doin’ alright?” he asks, and he seems as though he’s taking every opportunity to drink me in the way I was with him.

I nod, but then my face crumples, and I bite my lip to stop the tears from spilling out. I shake my head. “You?”

“Yeah, I’m alright.”

Of course he’s alright. Why wouldn’t he be?

He keeps smoothing his thumb over the knuckle of his middle finger. There’s an indentation there, and a tan line from what must be a very thick ring, though I don’t remember him wearing a ring before. Panic seizes my chest for a second, but then I realise that while it might be the right hand, it’s the wrong finger on which to wear a ring of any significance.

“I would have called, but I didn’t know where to find you,” I lie. I don’t know why I said that, and it only seems to have made him angry.

“Then you weren’t openin’ your fuckin’ eyes, babe. I’ve been following you around like a lost fuckin’ puppy for months.”

“Why?” I whisper.

“Now isn’t that the million-dollar fuckin’ question.”

“I don’t know what you want from me, Kick.”

“Then you’re stupid.” He shakes his head and stands to leave. “I want you, Kayla. That’s all; just you.” And then he turns and walks away. I watch his back until tears blur my vision, and I can’t see anything anymore.

“Oh honey, what happened?” Kimba asks, squatting down in front of me. She grasps the tops of my arms, and I flinch and suck in a sharp breath. “Sorry, I forgot you don’t like to be touched. I’m a hugger by default, so I’m going to have to work on that.”

Kick and Kimba have been the only ones I’ve felt comfortable enough with to let touch me since I was taken. But right now I’m too raw. I’m too full of feeling, too full of hurt. It’s ironic that I just let the only man who I’ll probably ever feel comfortable with walk away.

“Did that guy say something to you?” Kimba asks, giving me a little space and staring at the retreating figure of my biker as he walks away.

“No,” I say, wiping my eyes with the backs of my hands. I stand and straighten my apron. “No, I’m just having a bad life.”

Kimba laughs, and then she snaps her mouth closed when she realises I’m not kidding. I’m sure she knows that I haven’t forgotten my abduction, like the media said; she’s pretty intuitive that way. “Come on, it’s nothing that a sugar coma won’t fix,” she says and steps inside the café.

I glance once more up the street, hoping to catch a final glimpse of biker, but he’s gone. I follow Kimba inside, breathing in the warm, rich scent of her special mocha. In a way, this café feels more like home than my own apartment does.

A part of me would love to just head home and curl up under the covers right now, but another part knows that the minute I do, I’ll fall apart. Only this time, there will be no biker to put the pieces back together. And I miss him so much. With everything I am, I miss him. I just don’t know if it really matters anymore. He’s a criminal; he made me into a killer, and it excited him. Either way, God or no God, religion or no religion, I’m going to suffer for the things I’ve done, if not in the afterlife, then in this one.