She knew when he found out that she stole his bike that he was going to kill her, but what was one more bad life choice on top of the shit show her life had become? He wasn't using it anyway. He wasn't even here. He had left before the crash an burn, just as things looked like they might be getting better in spite of it all, traveling three thousand miles across the continent to pursue the woman he had fallen for. Something he, nor anyone else had ever done for her. Everybody left her. When they were together, if anything, he had fled, running half way around the world, volunteering for two tours of duty in Afghanistan just to put enough distance between them, just to get as far away from her as possible. And now, with the woman she knew was the love of her life, it had happened again. Was she so toxic that all of the people she fell in love with not only had to leave her, but had to put thousands of miles between them? Maybe she was. Her family certainly thought she was. Traitor. That's what they called her. All of them except Steve. But then again he became a traitor too when he took a deal to become a witness for the prosecution rather than force her to lie for him.
Why was she here again?
The bike vibrated, solid and warm between her legs as the wind picked up again, sneaking icy fingers between her leather jacket and the back of his black leather jeans that she found in his saddlebags and had also stolen for this ride. She shifted nervously, and shuffled her feet as the Blue Water Bridge vibrated, and shook and swayed slightly, groaning beneath the weight of the line of semitrailers waiting to enter the U.S., and was battered by the cold late October wind coming off the lake. The warm glow of lights beckoned from Port Huron below, promising a quick stop for coffee and a break from the cold. With any luck, she would make it through Customs without being hassled, and be on her way before dawn. She knew she would have to succumb to exhaustion eventually, but that would be a long way off. The line of trucks crept incrementally forward. She sighed, suppressed a yawn, and followed.
She wasn't sure if her skin was turning a brilliant shade of crimson from the hot water beating mercilessly on her, or from the alcohol, as she took an other deep pull from the neck of the bottle of Jose she had picked up at Duty Free. Swallowing the harsh liquid she leaned her head wearily against the cool tile wall of the shower in this crummy, cheap hotel room just outside of Lincoln, Nebraska and let the steam and the spray engulf her. Maybe someday she would be warm again. She rolled over slightly and slid down the wall cradling her bottle to the gaping, empty hole in her chest. Landing to sit in a crumpled heap on the floor, she desperately tried to remember why she was in such a hurry to get to San Fransisco. Nobody was waiting to greet her there anyway. Seventeen hours of riding and her entire body was a frozen, throbbing ache. She drank again, twirling the bottle between her lithe fingers, remembering a different time, a different shower, when in spite of everything she had been cared for, safe. The water was beginning to get cold. Lurching forward she shut it off, wrapped herself in a towel and stumbled to the bed just as the last rays of the sun disappeared behind the ugly strip mall across the street.
Was it really only yesterday she had been pulled into the Inspector's office and suspended indefinitely without pay, pending investigation into her being a dirty cop, aiding and abetting the dirty detectives of the Guns and Gangs unit? Her brother was in jail, Frankie Anderson had just been arrested for drug trafficking, racketeering, and embezzlement, along with Donovan Boyd and Jacob Blackstone. Of course she wasn't involved with any illegal activities! She hadn't even been aware of what was going on! But Donny was Steve's partner, and she had had sex with both Jacob and Frankie. Only she could have luck this bad, she thought as she put the tequila on the bedside table and turned out the light. Any way she looked at it, her career in law enforcement was over.
The sun was warmer today, shining brightly through the trees as she lounged on her bike in front of Dynamo Doughnut, coffee in one hand, maple bacon doughnut in the other. What was she still doing here? She didn't know. But today was going to be a good day. She had driven Nick's bike across half of North America as if demons were chasing her, leaving in the middle of the night without saying goodbye, only to end up here without a plan or even the courage to pick up the phone. That was almost two months ago, and now it was coming on Christmas.
San Francisco had been kind to her, kinder than Toronto ever was, even though she missed it. She was living in a tiny room, with a tiny balcony in the back of a rambling Victorian owned by a very wealthy, eccentric, elderly lesbian who seemed to know everybody in the city. She had landed a job as a courier through a retired police officer she met at her landlady's Halloween party, and spent her days driving through the streets of the city delivering everything from papers, to pastries, to blood and other medical supplies. It was delivering a package of tissue samples to the San Francisco Coroner's office that she first caught sight of her. She was coming out of the elevator, rush package in hand, when that voice rambling on about some kind of forensic bla bla bla stopped her cold.
Holly.
Her Holly.
No, not her Holly any more.
She had been frozen to the spot, forgotten package clutched in her hands, until the receptionist impatiently pried it from her fingers, breaking the spell. When she turned back to where Holly had been, she was gone.
Today was going to be a good day. She had a box of special, still warm, pastry in her saddle bag, a thermos full of coffee in the other, a plan in her head, and a smile on her lips. She had changed in the past year since she last saw Holly, thinner now than she had been since she was at the Academy, her hair died a dark brown, almost black, it had grown out into a wild mane that fell around her shoulders and tumbled down her back. The scars from the last year had changed her too, tougher, less fragile, and in some way more accessible, more confident, at least on the surface. She felt like maybe she had to lose everything before she could find who she truly was.
She could hear her heart beating loudly as she got off her bike, feel it knocking against her ribs, feel her blood coursing through her veins, the warmth of the thermos in one hand, the bite of the cardboard pastry box in the other. Her boots sounded too loud echoing off the hard surface of the elevator and the corridor, off set by the gentle creaking of her leather jeans and jingling of the belt of her open biker jacket as she walked.
Gail cleared her throat, her mouth suddenly as dry as a California summer.
"I have a special delivery here for Dr. Holly Stewart." She told the receptionist.
"Ok. You can leave that right here and I'll see that she gets it." The woman at the front desk said without once looking up from the novel she was reading.
"No." She insisted, "I said, I have a special delivery for Dr. Stewart."
The woman cursed under her breath in Spanish. "Look Sweetheart, Dr. Stewart is a very important, very busy person..."
"That's right!" Gail interrupted, leaning threateningly forward, giving the receptionist her best bad-cop, Gail Peck, glare, "She is a very important, very busy person! My instructions are to deliver this to her, personally. " Gail licked her lips and looked the woman up and down, "What did you say your name was, again?"
The receptionist looked bored, but picked up the phone and dialed. "Dr. Stewart, you have a package." Tapping her pen absently on the edge of her book as Holly replied, "No, the courier says she needs to deliver it to you personally."
A sad smile played briefly on Gail's lips.
"Ok then. You can find her in her office. Room 1035." The woman put down the phone and went back to her book.
The short walk down the hallway seemed to take hours, and no time at all. Suddenly her hand was on the door knob and her heart was in her throat. Holly was standing at the window, reading a report with her back to the door, just as Gail remembered her, in her old office, so long ago. As the rush of adrenaline hit her, she wouldn't have been surprised if her heart simply leapt from her chest, and she died right there.
"Thanks for bringing me whatever that is." Holly began, still eyeing her report, "you can just leave it on my desk."
Gail didn't move. She wasn't sure she could. It was like her feet were nailed to the thick Persian rug that sat before Holly's desk.
"I'm sorry? Did you need me to sign for..." Holly finally turned around. And then she saw Gail's eyes.
Gail watched in slow motion as the report slipped from Holly's hands, sending papers cascading across the floor, and her mouth became a silent O.
"Gail?" She finally whispered. And then in a slightly louder, somewhat trembling voice, "Gail, what are you doing here?"
"I... I, uh, thought you could use some coffee?" She raised the thermos she was clutching in her right hand, "you know... Maybe I shouldn't have come..." She set it and the box of pastries down on Holly's desk and began to back out the door.
Three strides was all it took for Holly to breach the gap and wrap Gail in her arms. "Don't you dare!" She whispered into Gail's ear.