CHAPTER SIX: A NEW DAY
I HAD AWOKEN ON SATURDAY FEELING LESS HOPEFUL THAN I HAD AS I'D DRIFTED OFF TO SLEEP. The sounds of the storm greeted me as I rose from my slumber, wind, rain and tree branches bashing against the window. Seth was still asleep, snoring lightly into his pillow. And although I was less hopeful, I did not feel the emptiness or numbness that I had known for months.
There was an ache, a deep, painful, still bleeding ache—but it wasn't lethal. It was manageable, survivable. And in that I found comfort.
I silently retreated from the room, and noticed that the door to Mom and Sean's room was still closed. I made my way downstairs and into the kitchen. I pulled out items from the pantry and fridge, turning the oven and stovetop on as I worked. I did not put on music, or turn on the television like I had been doing. Rather, as I began cooking breakfast I began to test just how much my mind and what was left of my soul were capable of handling. I did not think of him, only remembering how I had felt during out time together. I felt a blazing blade jam into my chest as I recalled the feelings. But I stood, continuing my work, and bared it.
I had felt deeply, too deeply. I had felt desired, beautiful, joyful, victorious, and worse of all, safe. I had never felt those feelings as deeply and raw as when I was with him. Never having felt so free to be myself, no mask or act needed with him. I remembered those feelings, remembered the touch of his icy skin on mine, the way our lips had melted into one another's. I remembered how it had felt to look into his eyes, how my heart fluttered whenever he was around, how my stomach twirled in marvel at the sound of his laugh and singing. I remembered for as long as I could bear, before forcing myself to shut my brain down before it all became too much.
Everyone else in the house rose when the sweet and savory aroma of the food had wafted up into the second floor. I heard Seth pounce off his bed, rushing down the stairs and straight towards me.
"Wait for Mom and Sean," I ordered as I handed him a cup of coffee. Seth groaned, walking to the counter where I had laid out milks and creamers for us each to make our coffee as we liked it.
My mother and Sean were not far behind Seth. They thanked me as they entered the kitchen, gazing at the food that was already set on the table. I always made a large breakfast on Saturdays, and what was left was typically eaten by Seth later in the day; I could not understand how he could eat so much and not seem to gain any weight. I'd not been nearly as ravenous at his age or during any point of my growth spurts.
The day played out as most of my Saturdays now did. I'd washed Seth and I's clothes, and he helped with the folding. I cleaned the bathroom, while Mom and Sean clean up the downstairs. After which I began and finished any homework that I had. Homework was a good distraction, providing my mind too much to process and complete to think of anything else. By nightfall I had finished the English and History essays that were not due until the following week, as well as the work for my Statistics class. I joined the others downstairs as they settled into their spots in the living room to watch a couple hours of television, and afterwards I kept my promise and let Seth begin teaching me how to play the new video game he had gotten. Surprisingly it was nearly as good a distraction as reading or homework had proven to be.
Sunday morning came, and I left the house quickly and quietly for my shift at the bakery. When I got there, Bethany and her three kids were already there. Bethany only brought her children, the youngest six, the middle child eight and the eldest eleven, to the bakery when there had been no one to watch them as she and her husband worked. They all greeted me, and I ruffled each of their heads as I approached the counter.
"I don't think it's going to be a busy day," Bethany told me. "We have a couple orders to knock out and then it's just wait-and-see who comes in today."
I nodded, making myself a cup of coffee, and then joined Bethany in the kitchen. She had been correct in that the day would not be busy. Though the relentless storm persisted, our small town still hosted those willing enough to hike and camp along the forests and mountain ranges. It was not untypical to have those tourist stop by to grab coffee and sweets before they took off on their excursion, but this particular day there seemed to be not a soul around.
"Beau, why don't you go ahead and take off," Bethany suggested, as we boxed up the last of today's pickup orders. At the moment there were only two patrons in the shop, dedicated backpackers from the sound of their conversation and the gear that they carried. They had stopped in thirty-minutes ago, ordering coffee and cinnamon buns each, before sitting at the furthest table away. While they ate and sipped on their coffee they'd indulge in trying to one-up each other with their latest tales from the trail. Their discussion hadn't appeared at all interesting to me.
"I don't mind staying," I said. I hadn't taken the chance at my attempt at remembering since yesterday morning, wanting to give myself more time before trying the exercise again. The pain, though livable, had felt as fresh and alive as the day it all had happened. I tried to tune out the laughing hikers without success.
"I'm telling you," said the thickset man with the red-orange beard that didn't match his dark brown hair. "I've seen grizzlies pretty close up in Yellowstone, but they had nothing on this brute." His hair was matted, and his clothes looked like they'd been on his back for more than a few days. Fresh from the mountains.
"There's no way! Not even grizzly bears don't get that big. The grizzlies you saw were probably cubs." The second man was tall and lean, his face tanned and wind-whipped into an impressive leathery crust.
"Really, Beau, as soon as these two leave, I'm closing up for the day. I hate making the kids stay here all day, and Tom will be getting off soon anyway," she murmured.
"If you're really sure..." I shrugged.
"You're not listening to me, Jack. It wasn't a bear, it was a wolf. On all fours it was taller than anything I've ever seen," the bearded man insisted while I gathered my things together. A wolf? That had made me pause. "Big as a house and pitch-black. I'm going to report it to the ranger here. People ought to be warned—this wasn't up on the mountain, mind you—this was only a few miles from the trailhead."
The leather-faced one, Jack, laughed and rolled his eyes. "How much moonshine did you have before you saw this giant wolf?"
"Sober as a nun."
"Let me guess—you were on your way in? Hadn't eaten real food or slept off the ground in a week, right?"
They had caught me listening, Bethany along with me. Her face alarmed.
"Hey, either of you two heard anything about some large wolfs around these parts?" the bearded man called, looking toward us.
"No. Nothing. Haven't heard anything about wolves," Bethany said quickly, and I could feel how tense she was.
Odd.
"And what about you?" the bearded man asked looking at me.
I shook my head. "No sir. I haven't been hiking since the storm started. But I'll ask my mom and step-dad about it. My mom's the sheriff and my step-day is one of the Quileute natives. If there's been any reports, they'd know."
"Your mom's the sheriff?" the red-beard one asked withe a raised brow before laughing. I could sense his misogynistic skepulince at the thought. The two men jumped as a lightening bolt cracked just above the shop. My head cocked to the right slightly, and my eyes narrowed briefly. I smiled.
"Yes sir, decorated and respected. She's a much a better shot than even my grandfather had been. He was sheriff too." The men looked at me in shock. I turned to Bethany, who was trying to hide a smile. "I'll see you on Tuesday." I walked from behind the counter and to the door, pausing to look at the men one last time. "Stay safe, Little Red."
The door closed behind me before they could respond. I stormed to my truck. The rain hammering against my hood, and the thunder sounded deafening loud, too. The roar of the engine was still not enough to drown out the shattering sounds of the storm.
I didn't particularly want to go back to the house just yet. Mom, Sean and Seth had gone to Seattle for the day to do some clothes shopping for Seth, as he was quickly growing out of the clothes he had. I wasn't paying attention to where I was driving—just wandering through empty, nearly flooded roads as I avoided the ways that would take me home—because I didn't have anywhere to go. I couldn't be alone. I wasn't ready for absolute solitude.
I wished I could feel numb again, but I had inadvertently banished the skill by remembering. The two visions were nagging at my mind and making me think about things that would cause me pain. I didn't want to remember the way he had looked in the hallucinated visions—beautiful, but distraught, grieving. I could sense his anguish, almost as though he'd been beside me. Fantasies of the subconscious, I reminded myself. That hadn't really been real, he hadn't been real—I was not Alice, I could not see things. I wasn't that special—I wasn't enough.
Even as I shuddered away from the images, I felt my eyes fill with tears as the aching slowly slithered around the edges of the hole in my chest. I took one hand from the steering wheel and wrapped it around my torso to hold it in one piece.
It will be as if I'd never existed. The words ran through my head, over and over, as clearly as the day he had left me. They were just words, soundless, like print on a page. Just words, but they ripped the hole wide open, and I stomped on the brake, knowing I should not drive while this incapacitated.
I curled over, pressing my face against the steering wheel and trying to breathe without lungs.
I wondered how long this would last. How long would I grief, how long would I suffer? How long until I could potentially even consider the thought of moving on? Maybe someday, years from now—if the pain would just decrease to the point where I could fully bear it—I would be able to look back on that half-year with him, and that would always be the best of my life. And, if it were possible that the pain would ever soften enough to allow me to do that, I was sure that I would feel grateful for as much time as he'd given me. Even though it would not be forever as I'd once hope, I prayed that it would be enough. That time with him, the only time I could remember simply being allowed to be me, was more than I'd deserved. Maybe someday I'd be able to see it that way?
But what if this hole in my chest never closes? What if my broken heart could never mend? What would become of me if my soul stayed dead? What if the damage was permanent and irreversible?
I held myself tightly together. As if he'd never existed, I thought in despair. What a stupid and impossible promise to make! He could steal my painting, he could reclaim his gifts, he could erase himself from my existence, but he could never make me forget. And I would live for as long as my heart would allow, haunted by his memory. Because I couldn't go back, back to the time before I knew him. The physical evidence was the most insignificant part of the equation.
I had been forever changed, during my time with him, and after, my insides altered almost past the point of recognition. Even my outsides looked different now—my hair longer, my face paler, skin tight over my skull. My eyes were dark enough against my pallid skin that—even with the mortal beauty I possessed, and seen from a distance—I might even pass for a vampire now.
But I did not feel beautiful. I had been told many multiple times by humans that I were, had caught the way that people seemed to noice and gawk at me whenever I entered a room, had known on some level that I was attractive for a mortal. But never could I compare my outward appearance to his. And now, after all this time, I probably looked closer to a zombie or a phantom.
As if he'd never existed? That was insanity. It was a promise that he could never keep, a promise that was broken as soon as he'd made it. I thumped my head against the steering wheel, trying to distract myself from the sharper pain.
He had made my promise him one thing, that I would not be reckless, or do anything stupid. It made me feel silly for ever worrying about keeping my promise. Where was the logic in sticking to an agreement that had already been violated by the other party? Who cared if I was reckless and stupid? There was no reason to avoid recklessness, no reason why I shouldn't get to be stupid. I laughed humorlessly to myself, still gasping for air. Reckless in Forks—now there was a hopeless proposition. Magnet for danger as I was, the fact that I had met the same human predators nearly a year later in Port Angeles evidence enough—but within the town boarders there seemed to be no danger within Forks. Of course, I was overdue for a near death experience. Perhaps one of those giant wolves would stalk upon me.
The dark humor distracted me, and the distraction eased the pain. My breath came easier, and I was able to lean back against the seat. Though it was cold today, my forehead was damp with sweat.
I concentrated on my hopeless proposition to keep from sliding back into the excruciating memories. To be reckless in Forks would take a lot of creativity—maybe more than even I had. But I wished I could find some way... I might feel better if I weren't holding fast, all alone, to a broken pact. If I were an oath-breaker, too. But how could I cheat on my side of the deal, here in this harmless little town? Of course, Forks hadn't always been so harmless, but now it was exactly what it had always appeared to be. It was dull, it was safe.
I stared out the windshield for a long moment, brushing my hand through my hair, my thoughts moving sluggishly—I couldn't seem to make those thoughts go anywhere. I cut the engine, which was groaning in a pitiful way after idling for so long, and stepped out into the storm. The cold rain dripped through my hair and then trickled across my cheeks like freshwater tears. It helped to clear my head. I blinked the water from my eyes, staring blankly across the road. After a minute of staring, I recognized where I was. I'd parked in the middle of the north lane of Russell Avenue. I was standing in front of the Cheneys' house—my truck was blocking their driveway—and across the road lived the Biers'.
I knew I needed to move my truck, and that I ought to go home. It was wrong to wander the way I had, distracted and impaired, a menace on the roads of Forks. Besides, someone would notice me soon enough, and report me to my mother.
As I took a deep breath in preparation to move, a sign in the Biers' yard caught my eye—it was just a big piece of cardboard leaning against their mailbox post, with black letters scrawled in caps across it.
Sometimes, kismet happens.
Coincidence? Or was it actually fate that had enacted now? I didn't know, but it seemed very foolish to think that it was not the latter, that the dilapidated motorcycles rusting in the Biers' front yard beside the hand-printed FOR SALE, AS IS sign were not serving some higher purpose by existing there, right where I needed them to be. So perhaps it was not kismet. Perhaps it was indeed fate, or magic. Maybe there were just all kinds of ways to be reckless, and I only now had my eyes open to them.
Reckless, foolish and death-traps. Those were my mother's three very favorite words to apply to motorcycles.
Mom's job didn't allow for her or her fellow officers to bear witness to the action compared to cops in bigger towns and cities, but she did get called in on traffic accidents. With the long, wet stretches of freeway twisting and turning through the forest, blind corner after blind corner, there was no shortage of that kind of action. But even with all the huge log-haulers barreling around the turns, mostly people walked away. The exceptions to that rule were often on motorcycles, and my mother had seen one too many victims, almost always kids, smeared on the highway. She'd made me promise before I was ten that I would never accept a ride on a motorcycle. Even at that age, I didn't have to think twice before promising. Who would want to ride a motorcycle here? It would be like taking a sixty-mile-per-hour bath.
So many promises I kept…always keeping, never breaking…
It clicked together for me then. I wanted to be stupid and reckless, to be a rebellious teenager, and that would mean I'd have to break promises. And why stop at only one?
That's as far as I thought it through. I sloshed through the rain to the Biers' front door and rang the bell. As soon as I had, I felt my stomach drop. The memory of last July bolting through my mind as fast as a locomotive. Their Biers' eldest son, Riley, who had just graduated had gone missing. He'd been accepted into the University of Washington in Seattle, and had gone early for summer courses. Edward and I had brought my mother lunch when Riley's parents had stormed into the station in full panic.
He'd been last seen in a cafe, there had been a storm, and surveillance footage had only been able to pick up a dark shadow moving by him. His MISSING PERSONS poster still littered the town, his parents never giving up their search. I shouldn't be here.
Before I could retreat one of the other Biers boys opened the door, the middle one, the freshman. I remember his name, Mason. His sandy hair, the same color as his brother's had been, only came up to the base of my chest.
He had apparently remembered me as well. "Beau Swan?" he asked in surprise.
I smiled down at him, feeling guilty, he recognized the look instantly and slumped in on himself. "Hey, Mason. Are either of your parents home?" He nodded, leaning his head over his shoulder to call out for his father.
Dorian Biers, a man well into his fifties now, with salt-and-pepper hair, come around from the kitchen. His face was aged, his eyes sunken into their sockets as deeply as mine, looked up at me with surprise. For a moment I could feel the misplace hope that swiftly consumed him. I was the sherif's son after all, and he'd hope—but the hope soon vanished. He knew that if any information of his son's whereabouts were to be revealed my mother would have come herself. His face fell.
"What can I do for you Beau?" I recognized the lifeless tone of his voice. And I berated myself for a moment. How could my loss possibly compare to that of a parent who had lost a child?
"I'm so very sorry to bother you Mr. Biers; I was just driving by and I noticed your sign. And I was wondering how much do you want for the bikes?" I asked gently, jerking my thumb over my shoulder toward the sales display.
"Are you serious?" he demanded.
"Of course I am."
"They don't work."
I nodded understandably, and tried to force a smile on my face. The state of the bikes were clear—something I'd easily inferred from the sign.
"I understand. But I have a friend who likes fixing up old cars and bikes, and I need to get him a birthday present," I lied about the real reasoning, though I had already assumed I would need to provide Jacob a reason to help out with the show, and a gift was as good as a bargaining chip I had. "So how much?"
"Um. You know if you really want them, just take them. They were…" Dorian Biers' breath caught in his throat. He gulped down the emotion that the memories of what had been Riley's bikes had brought. "My wife and I moved them down the road for the trash to take," he finished with a choking voice. His pain melted into mine, and I felt a wave of fresh anguish wash over me. I fought to fight back tears of my own. I glanced at the bikes again and saw that they were resting on a pile of yard clippings and dead branches.
"Are you sure, sir? I don't mind paying for them."
"Nah, we never got around to fixing them. And Lucy and I don't want Mason or Noah on them." He suddenly looked at me suspiciously. "You're not planning on getting on those things are you?"
"No sir, absolutely not," I lied wholeheartedly. "I promised my mom years ago I wouldn't get on one. But my friend lives on the reservation, and he and his friends down there like to go dirt biking. I'm sure he can fix them up for just that."
Mr. Biers nodded his head, believing me.
"Well, damn things are heavy. Let me come help you get them into your truck."
The storm was blaring outside of his warm house, and I didn't want to trouble him anymore than I already had.
"Oh you don't need to do that. No sense in both of us getting drenched."
He shook his head, his eyes cast down. "It's no trouble. I've got a coat." As if he'd been waiting, Mason was there with his father's rain slicker. Mr. Biers thanked him and put it on.
"Why don't you go see if your Mama needs any help in the kitchen?" Mason nodded his head and left without a word.
Mr. Biers followed me to the edge of his yard. I took the handles of one bike in my hands, and kicked the resting stand upward before wheeling it towards the bed of my truck. I land the rusted bike against the side and unlatched the back open. Mr. Biers had followed my actions. Together him and I hauled the bikes into the bed before latching the back closed.
We stood there for a moment, the awkward silence hanging above us.
"You really think your friend can get them working?" He asked, not really interested, but trying to be polite.
I nodded my head, and wiped the rain from my face. "Yeah. He fixed up The Thing here, she wasn't operational until he got his hands on it."
Mr. Biers looked at my ancient Chevy before whistling in approval.
"That's really impressive. Good thing too, this truck and those bikes would cost you an arm and a leg if you'd needed to take them down to Dowling."
I nodded with my brows raised. John Dowling had earned a reputation for his pricing; no one went to him except in an emergency. Most people preferred to make the drive up to Port Angeles, if their car was able. I'd been very lucky on that front—I'd been worried, when Mom first gifted me my ancient truck, that I wouldn't be able to afford to keep it running. But I'd never had a single problem with it, other than the screaming-loud engine and the fifty-five-mile-per-hour maximum speed limit. Jacob Black had gotten it into fantastic shape.
"Your mom," Mr. Biers began, not meeting my eyes. "Has she," he gulped. "I mean do you know if—"
"Not yet, Mr. Biers," I answered, inferring and feeling the dark emotions that swan in his soul. He bit down on his bottom lip, nodding his head while staring at a deep puddle.
"But she hasn't stoped reaching out to the Seattle PD, or other adjoining counties, either. She's very persistent, and dedicated. And hopeful." I fought myself hard to give him a genuine smile.
Mr. Biers nodded his head again. "Good woman, your mother," he said sighing. "You take care of yourself. Make sure your to tell your friend to be careful on those."
"I promise."
Mr. Biers stood closer to his yard as I got into the cab and began to drive away. He waved as I made a three-way-turn and passed him.
It wasn't until I was five miles away from the Biers' home that I felt their negativity leave my body. I sighed, oddly grateful to only be left alone again with my own suffering.
I knew my way to the Quileute reservation, having joined my mother on multiple occasions there prior and after the dark months to either visit at Sean's when he'd lived there, and on one occasion the Blacks' home. I'd know that Billy had visited us at our home on multiple occasions during the time where I was acting but not alive or really present. I could not remember Jacob joining him, and now, as I drove to the reservation, I wondered wretchedly if it were because he, too, had been glad that they had left.
I pushed the notion aside, focusing on my driving as the storm grew darker than it had been in the morning. The sky was alive with iridescent lightning. A large flock of birds flew in a circle within the illuminated clouds. As I continued to drive, I began hoping that I would find Jacob alone. I knew the likelihood of Mr. Biers reporting anything to my mother was slim-to-none, I knew that it had been since Christmas when he and his wife had last gone to see her at the station—I remembered only because she'd come home that day in obvious distressed. I had vague flashes of her holding me, and making me promise that I would always be safe, and that I would always be on my guard…
I did not want to see Billy. I still harbored resentment towards him for how he had viewed them. He had hated and been prejudiced without knowing them. And I knew that he was all too thrilled of their departure, though I was sure even he wasn't fool enough to ever voice that around me. For some reason their memory, or maybe it was their honor still mattered to me. And I wondered to myself, if it was because I still felt a sense of loyalty to them, or if, despite all my own convincing and assurance, that maybe one day, long, long down the road, they would return?
I also did not wish to see Billy, because I was sure that if he saw the motorcycles in The Things' bed, he would immediately tell my mom. And though I was still irritated with him, I didn't particularly enjoy the thought of hitting a crippled man in the head with a frying pan, which is what I knew I would do if he blabbed.
So I needed Jacob to be alone.
The Blacks' house was vaguely familiar, a small wooden place with narrow windows, the dull red paint making it resemble a tiny barn.
Jacob's head peered out of the window before I could even get out of the truck. No doubt the familiar roar of the engine had tipped him off to my approach. Jacob had been very grateful when my mother had bought Billy's truck for me, saving Jacob from having to drive it when he came of age. I liked my truck very much, but Jacob seemed to consider the speed restrictions a shortcoming. Very much like…
"Like Edward," I forced myself to whisper, his named clawing at my throat as it left it. I blinked a few times, brushing away the traitorous tears before getting out of the truck.
Jacob met me halfway to the house, not seeming to be bothered by the storm.
"Beau!" His excited grin stretched wide across his face, the bright teeth standing in vivid contrast to the deep russet color of his skin. I'd never seen his hair out of its usual ponytail before. It fell like black satin curtains on either side of his broad face.
Jacob had grown into some of his potential in the last eight months. He'd passed that point where the soft muscles of childhood hardened into the solid, lanky build of a teenager; the tendons and veins had become prominent under the red-brown skin of his arms, his hands. His face was still sweet like I remembered it, though it had hardened, too—the planes of his cheekbones sharper, his jaw squared off, all childish roundness gone.
"Hey, Jacob!" I felt an unfamiliar surge of enthusiasm at his smile. I realized that I was pleased to see him. This knowledge surprised me. I smiled back, and something clicked silently into place, like two corresponding puzzle pieces. I'd forgotten how much I really liked Jacob Black.
He stopped a few feet away from me, and I stared down at him in surprise, he stood only two inches shorter than I was.
"You grew again!" I accused in amazement. He was only sixteen—or was it seventeen now?
He laughed, his smile widening impossibly. "Six three," he announced with self-satisfaction. His voice was deeper, but it had the husky tone I remembered. "I'm gonna be taller than you soon."
"I don't doubt it?" I shook my head in disbelief. "You're going to be huge. You're not into basketball are you?"
He laughed, the sound almost like a bark. "Not really. I'm still a beanpole, though." He grimaced. "Come inside! You're getting all wet."
He led the way, twisting his hair in his big hands as he walked. He pulled a rubber band from his hip pocket and wound it around the bundle.
"Dad'll be upset he missed you," he said as he ducked to get through the front door, myself having to do the same. "He just up and decided to go visit Hailey and Ben McKnight. Our neighbor down the road took him."
I smiled. What lovely luck that was.
"So what brings you by?" Jacob asked as he launched himself onto his couch. I slid into the recliner.
"I got off work early, Mom and Sean took Seth to Seattle to shop for clothes, he's almost growing as fast as you seem to be. Must be something in the water down here."
Jacob and I laughed together. "And as I was driving it just dawned on me that I've not really seen you in a while, so I thought I'd pop by for a visit."
Jacob smiled widely again. "Yeah, it's been a bit. How are you doing?"
My honest enjoyment vanished, and the facade I had grown accustomed to playing took over as soon as the question had left his lips.
"I'm great. Been really busy with school, work, yearbook comity, college applications and the spring musical. So, you know. Full plate."
"Damn. Sounds like it. Do you have time to breathe?"
"Hardly," I said forcing a stage laugh that was all too authentic.
"Well I'm glad you stopped by."
The act faded a bit, due to the genuine truth of his words.
"Me too."
"So, what do you want to do?" Jacob asked.
"Whatever. What were you doing before I interrupted?" I was strangely comfortable here. It was familiar, but only distantly. There were no painful reminders of the recent past.
Jacob hesitated. "I was just heading out to work on my car, but we can do something else..."
"No, that's perfect!" I interrupted. "I'd love to see your car."
"Okay," he said, not convinced. "It's out back, in the garage."
I followed Jacob back out into the storm and around the house. A thick stand of trees and shrubbery concealed his garage from the house. The garage was no more than a couple of big preformed sheds that had been bolted together with their interior walls knocked out. Under this shelter, resting on the wet dirt, was what looked to me like a completed automobile. I recognized the symbol on the grille, at least.
"What kind of Volkswagen is that?" I asked.
"It's an old Rabbit—1986, a classic."
"How's it going?"
"Almost finished," he said cheerfully. And then his voice dropped into a lower key. "My dad made good on his promise last spring."
"Ah," I said.
He seemed to understand my reluctance to open the subject. I tried not to remember last May at the prom. Jacob had been bribed by his father with money and car parts to deliver a message there. Billy wanted me to stay a safe distance from the most important person in my life. It turned out that his concern was, in the end, unnecessary. I was all too safe now.
And there was nothing that I could do about that. I had resided myself to that fact. He was gone, and my hallucinated visions were just that. He, at least, would never come back. So, as I'd already established myself of the fact, I was not bound by our agreement. I would never forget him. So I could be reckless and have some fun.
"Jacob, what do you know about motorcycles?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Some. My friend Embry has a dirt bike. We work on it together sometimes. Why?"
Huh. Funny. I hadn't know that Jacob or his friends had really enjoyed dirt biking when I'd lied to Mr. Biers. Strange coincidence.
"Well..." I pursed my lips as I considered. I wasn't sure if he could keep his mouth shut, but I didn't have many other options. "I recently acquired a couple of bikes, and they're not in the greatest condition. I wonder if you could get them running?"
"Wait. Seriously?" He seemed truly pleased by the statement. His face glowed.
"They're in the back of the truck," I said, gesturing with my thumb towards the direction of his house.
"Awesome! Yah, I'll give it a try."
I held up one finger in warning. "The thing is," I explained, "My mother doesn't approve of motorcycles. Honestly, she'd probably murder me, bring me back to life, and kill me again if she knew about this. So you can't tell anyone. Especially your father."
"Sure, sure." Jacob smiled. "I understand."
"And I'll pay you," I continued.
This offended him. "No. I want to help. You can't pay me."
"Well... how about a trade, then?" I was making this up as I went, but it seemed reasonable enough. I did still need to ask him for help with the show.
"What trade?"
I smiled again. He was too eager for the challenge. Perfect.
"I only need one bike—and I'll need lessons, too. So how about this? I'll give you the other bike, and then you can teach me."
"Swee-eet." He made the word into two syllables.
"Wait a sec—there's one another thing."
Jacob raised a brow. "What?"
"So, I am preforming in my school's spring musical. And there are some technical things that we desperately need help with, that we don't have the money to hire someone to fix. Seth has already agreed to help work on some things, and do special effects for the show. If," I said straining the word, "you would agree to come help us out on weekends, I will give you the other bike, and will just ride it with you when I'm over here."
"You want me to come down to your school and hang out with a bunch of drama nerds?" he asked with a grin.
I narrowed my eyes. "We prefer the term 'thespian,' thank you. And it would be a big help. Otherwise, this may be one of the lamest shows I've ever done." I widened my eyes in an attempt to look sad or desperate, both of which I already were.
Jacob sighed, taking his time to consider. "Do I have permission to really amp up whatever it is you guys need fixing?"
"Make it Broadway worthy and I will become your permeant cookie maker. You want cookies, just text me, and I'll hand deliver them to you. Day and night, twenty-four-seven."
"Will you do my laundry?" he asked jokingly.
"Don't push it, Black," I warned.
He laughed, holding out his hand. "You've got yourself a deal."
I shook his hand, returning the smile.
We eased around from the east, not worrying about concealing ourselves with the knowledge that Billy was currently miles up the road. Together Jacob and I carefully unloaded the bikes swiftly from the truck bed, though taking care to be cautions of the pouring rain. Once the were each out, we wheeled them one by one into the shrubbery where we would keep them hid after when we had concluded our work on them for the day. Where I had struggled to push my bike through the muddy bracket, it'd looked too easy for him—he had gotten to the shrubs long before me.
"These aren't half bad, you know," Jacob appraised as we pushed them through the cover of the trees. "This one here will actually be worth something when I'm done—it's an old Harley Sprint."
"That one's yours, then."
"Aren't both of them mine," he reminded me with a grin.
"Ahh yes," I nodded. "But I recommend you use the Harley for exclusively you.
Jacob continued to study the bikes. "These are going to take some cash, though," he said, frowning down at the blackened metal. "We'll have to save up for parts first."
"We nothing," I disagreed. "If you're doing this for free, and helping with the show, I'll pay for the parts."
"I don't know..." he muttered.
"Listen, I actually make really good money at the bakery, and I hardly ever spend it. In four months I've made quite a bit, a lot of it cash. And never repeat this, but my dad still kinda gives me an allowance. He puts money into my bank account each month, and I've not really spent it since I moved here. I can cover the parts and be fine."
Jacob just nodded. This all made perfect sense to him.
As we skulked back to the makeshift garage, I contemplated my luck. Only a straight teenage boy would agree to this: deceiving both our parents while repairing dangerous vehicles using money that was probably meant for me to have for when I would go off to college. He didn't see anything wrong with that picture. Jacob was a gift from the gods.
