TRACE
It can’t be. Not after all these years. All this time…
After the stifling scent of death and decay in the basement, Trace reported back to Bone and then took his ass outside, for a much needed walk. The neighborhood was shit, but people knew who he was. They didn’t fuck with him, even when he wasn’t wearing his patch. It just so happened, that he was currently wearing his leather jacket with the entwined scythes and snakes.
He was out clearing his damn head- and his nose- walking down the street, minding his own fucking business, lost in his thoughts, which grew more morose with every passing day, when he noticed a blue station wagon drive past. He froze, like he always did when he saw a car that looked like hers.
That car, and any that looked like it, belonged to his past.
Nine years ago he’d still had a shred of hope left, and most of his soul. Now… it was dicey as to whether he had much of either. He’d still had a name. A name he’d almost forgotten.
A deluge of memories assaulted Trace as he sailed out of the compound and out to the street. Her face swam through the blackness of his mind. He’d strapped a can of gas to the back of his bike and the fumes reached up him even with the fresh air rushing by. Sandra. How could it be? He’d seen a million of those cars over the years. They were never hers. Not one. Why tonight? Why now?
He knew he was wrong. The car was right, but it had been too long. Too many years. She was probably long gone. When he’d knocked on the window, he didn’t expect it to roll down, let alone the bluest cornflower eyes to stare back at him, peering straight through his soul.
His insides were a mess. He’d seen a lot of death over the years. Some shit would make even the hardest of man toss their cookies. The sight of those eyes, the hint of silky dusty blonde hair, the fringe of those long lashes, those lush pink lips… they haunted him. She’d haunted him for nearly a decade and now, like some fucking present at a time when he needed it most and could least afford it, she was there.
Out of gas, a few blocks from the damn club house like a sick twist of fortune.
She was in that car, waiting for him. Waiting for him to rescue her.
He was no fucking guardian angel. He’d failed her when she needed him most. She’d told him that she loved him and he knew he was fucked. He’d been a prospect at the time, about to patch in. He wasn’t going to risk Sandra’s life doing the shit he was doing. He could have left the club. He could have got out. He wasn’t an official member at the time.
He was the dumbest fucking dumb ass that ever walked the earth though. Because he hadn’t. He’d made the decision to set her free. Even if he left the club, he knew that he was shit. He wasn’t good enough for her. He never would be. She was an angel and he was a turd. Nothing good would ever happen for her if he was in her life. He couldn’t burden her gloriously free soul with the weight of his demons.
His mother once said that about his father. That he was a curse. She’d then gone on to state that he was just like his old man. Trace knew his mother, god rest the bitch’s soul, was right. But she was no great parent herself. She was on and off drugs. Strung out more times than not. His dad was a piece of work. Fucked around. Drank too much. Ran with the wrong crowd and did shady shit. Probably supplied his mom’s drug habit. Despite all that, he always put food on a table and kept a roof over their heads. He provided for Trace’s mother until she passed, a needle in her arm, when Trace was seventeen. His dad followed six months later. Despite his many faults, Trace knew that his father died of a broken heart.
Trace banished the unhappy thoughts. He was almost at Sandra’s car.
She didn’t know who he was. He’d used a deeper tone, kept his head low so his hair covered most of his face. He didn’t want her to know. He’d help her. Get her on her way to safety.
Nothing had changed.
He wished it fucking had. That instead of walking down the street with the smell of torture singeing his nostrils, dressed in a fucking cut and shit-kickers, he had some smart suit and shiny square-toed shoes. Like normal people. He wished that he wasn’t a dick-wad. He wished and not for the first time lately, that he’d become something better than who he currently was.
He pulled up behind the car and killed the engine so his headlights turned off. Grabbing the gas can, he knocked lightly on the window. It unrolled a second later and he swore that when he breathed in, Sandra’s perfume and her perfect womanly scent, a scent he remembered so damn well he could probably reproduce it if he had a fucking lab, assaulted him. He took a hesitant step back and shook his head before he remembered why he was there in the first place.
“I have the gas. I’ll fill it up for you. Don’t get out of the car. I’ll knock on the window when it’s ready to go. Don’t turn the key all the way when you start it. Turn it a few notches and let it prime itself before you try and start it. After I put the gas in, I’ll wait to make sure you’re on the road before I leave.”
“Thank you.” The words were so soft, so sweet, that he nearly wept. He shoved out of the line of sight from the window and walked around to the back of the car.
What the hell is wrong with me? He was a grown fucking man. It had been a long damn time. Her voice… just hearing her voice brought it all back.
Trace had fucked a few women in his lifetime. Okay, hell, there was far more than a few. Sometimes a few a night, back in the day. He’d leveled off since then. He actually couldn’t remember the last time he’d been with a woman.
It had always been about sex. Every single time. It was a simple equation. He got horny. He found a woman who was also horny. They fucked. It scratched the itch for both of them. They enjoyed it. End of story.
Sandra was supposed to be one of those fucks. A way to scratch an itch that was annoyingly biological. It was just supposed to be a one night thing, like all the others. Except that he hadn’t been able to forget her. She’d stayed with him and he found himself at her apartment, over and over and over and over again. A month passed. Two. Three. Four. Six.
She was the only woman he’d ever loved.
His cock trying to bust through his zipper told him that maybe just the sight of her beautiful face, which hadn’t aged a damn second, was enough to undo whatever control and resistance he’d worked so hard to build up over the years.
He’d forgotten Sandra. At least, that was his most popular lie.
He was shit back then. He was shittier now. He’d gas up the car, send her on her way and never think about her again. End of fucking story.
Except as he tipped the gas can up and drained the last of the contents into the thirsty tank, the back passenger door opened and someone got out. Trace looked up to find a kid studying him. A young boy. Probably no more than seven or eight.
“Thanks, mister,” the boy said quickly before he ducked back in the car. Trace could hear Sandra’s voice coming from inside. No doubt that kid was never supposed to get out. He had though.
And now there was no way in hell Trace was letting Sandra drive off.
Because looking at that kid was like looking at a ghost of himself at that age. He was the spitting image, an identical replica, like his eight year old self had come back to tell him what a shithead he’d become, how his life had absolutely zero fucking meaning, how patching in to the club had ruined his life, not given him a family. The eight year old version of himself would definitely kick his ass.
Trace was sure as fuck that the kid, Sandra’s kid… was his son.