Chapter 13
It’s been seventeen days since I last saw Ian. Seventeen days of bossy-ass text messages and his little warnings. Seventeen days of running harder and faster and longer. The first few times Ian disapproved of my responses, I was wary of pushing him further, but then he sent more texts. He checks up on me more regularly and about everything. He isn’t playing fair, with all his warnings and bullshit. I don’t care, though. He can only yell at me so much in text form. Eventually he’s going to have to face me.
I want him to face me more than I want him to like me. I can’t deal with his craziness without seeing his face or hearing his voice. The sound of his voice in my head pushes me to get to the house in record time. The more frustrated I get with him, the faster I am. I’ve shaved minutes off my loop around town by driving myself to be better. I don’t tell the asshole that, though. He wants to send me lame-ass texts that reek of obligation and his self-sacrificing bullshit, so I give him what he wants and nothing more. Sometimes I argue or don’t answer until I feel like it. Sometimes I answer right away because I can’t help myself. And sometimes, late at night, I have to put my phone across the room from me when I feel myself giving in to texting him first. I miss hearing his voice. I miss catching his eyes on me. I just miss him, but most of all, I miss his touch. By now, everybody else knows not to touch me. It’s isolating, not being touched—only I didn’t realize how isolating until I had his touch and then lost it. He doesn’t even have to talk to me. Maybe if even he could just hold my hand once in a while. That might be enough. It would still be too little, but I could settle for it.
It’s the least he could do—to boss me around in person. And since I can’t irritate him into showing up, then I guess I’ll have to be the one doing the showing up, and the best way to do that is by finding a job with the club. If I’m at the clubhouse, he’ll have to talk to me. I intend to make sure of it.
Step one in getting a job with the club is talking to the person in charge, which according to Grady by way of Holly is Ruby. She says he’s always bitching about how much influence she has over Jim. I’ve done my best to try not to be too obvious with my questions. Holly’s made her feelings about me and Ian clear, and honestly, I can’t tolerate another round of judgment. Ian doesn’t deserve that after everything he’s done for her.
I let it sink in—my anger with Holly—and I focus in on it until I’m flying so fast down Sherwood Road that I’m barely making out anything around me. My muscles burn and my lungs ache from the strain of my speed. Three months of running as far and as fast as I can have given me a bit of an advantage. My body is used to the abuse, and my mind welcomes it. I’ve learned how to breathe through my mouth, not my nose. I’ve learned that when the aching starts is right when I’m hitting my stride. I’ve learned how much my body can take before it gives up. But most importantly, I’ve learned to take my life in my own hands.
The last quarter mile to Ruby and Jim’s house is on a slight incline that isn’t very noticeable if you’re in a car. Right now, miles from home and pushing myself to my limit, it makes all the difference. I try slowing down to make it to the driveway, but with every step, my body feels heavier and heavier. On weakened knees, I stumble into the weeds and brush that edge the paved road. My upper body is pulled forward, and just before I fall on hands and knees, I regain my footing and am able to come to a safe stop. With my hands on my bent knees, I keep my feet shoulder-width apart. I’m sucking in desperate breath after desperate breath, my eyes watering, and my chest heaving, sore from my maniacal sprint. My eyes cross, my vision blurs, and once again I nearly lose my balance. I shut my eyes and try to focus on regulating my breathing before I move. Losing track of time, I stay bent over like this until my lungs are no longer straining and I feel steady enough to continue my journey.
When I straighten I find a familiar figure at the end of the driveway. He’s standing in black jeans and a black short-sleeved shirt. His leather cut covers his broad chest, and his black hair gleams in the late-morning light that’s breaking through the redwoods. I’ve never spoken to him before, but I’d recognize Ryan Stone anywhere.
“Crazy bitch,” he mutters with a shake of his head.
I don’t respond and approach him. Getting in an argument with Ryan, or worse, being sent away, won’t do me any good. If he doesn’t let me see Ruby, then nearly passing out on the side of the road was all for naught.