Ride Steady

And luckily, due to my next paycheck being augmented, I could actually (mostly) afford it.

 

LeLane’s still was in the throes of the flu epidemic, but the two cashiers who’d first gone down were back, which meant I had two days off.

 

Two days off where I’d be moving stuff in, unpacking it, doing chores, and running errands.

 

I couldn’t wait to live in that house.

 

But I needed another day off.

 

Or three.

 

I was dead on my feet.

 

Or, more aptly, dead on my behind on a stool at Chaos.

 

I was also faking it. I was getting to know these people, and if they got one whiff I was struggling, they’d kidnap me, take me to the nearest luxury hotel, lock me in a room, and only disturb me to send up a massage therapist and, maybe, a skin technician.

 

“Babe, this is cool,” Tack said, and I focused on him to see him tipping his head to the bar laden with pastries but he was looking at me. “Unnecessary but cool.”

 

I pinned a bright smile on my face as I contradicted, “Necessary and the least I could do.”

 

He grinned.

 

Boz, with a ring of chocolate stuck in the long whiskers around his mouth, declared, “Never stepped foot in that store. Thought they were up their own asses. They got éclairs like this, I’m goin’ every day.”

 

Bonus, I’d bought LeLane’s a new customer.

 

He shoved the second half of his fourth éclair in his mouth and I turned my bright smile to him.

 

“Shee-it! What the fuck?” I heard hooted by Hound (who was at the other end of the bar, annihilating the petit fours).

 

After that I heard a catcall and a low whistle.

 

And finally, Boz shouted, “Fuck me. Joke cleans up good!”

 

That made my grin genuinely though I didn’t understand the reaction to Joker since I hadn’t seen him yet. Still, any promise of Joker in my vicinity would make me grin and do it genuinely.

 

Joker had told me he had something to do that morning and would come and get me around nine thirty. I told him I had something to bring to the Compound so I’d meet him there.

 

Now he was there.

 

And that made me happy.

 

Until he came into view.

 

That made me freeze.

 

It was him. I knew it was. I could see his eyes. The color of his hair. His usual faded jeans, tee, and leather jacket.

 

I could also see his face.

 

All of it.

 

He’d shaved.

 

He’d also had his hair cut. It was trimmed at the sides, not a crew cut or anything, but a lot shorter, messy and long-ish on top but not as long as it used to be. It still fell over his forehead, but not like before.

 

He had a very nice jaw.

 

He even had attractive ears.

 

And last, he did not look like him. Even if he still did.

 

No, he now looked like a boy I once knew. A boy grown up.

 

Carson Steele.

 

His eyes fell on me and his lips moved as he kept coming toward me.

 

“Hey, Butterfly. You ready for today?”

 

I didn’t answer.

 

I was busy staring.

 

This couldn’t be true.

 

I kept staring wondering how I could miss this. Wondering how this could be real.

 

But I hadn’t missed it. The very first time he got close on the shoulder of I-25, I knew I knew him. And later that first meeting, I’d felt the same way. And again and again, repeatedly.

 

I knew that I knew.

 

But I couldn’t put my finger on it because he’d changed. He had the years since we’d last seen each other written on his face, in every inch of his frame.

 

But it was more. The hair. The beard. The bulk on his body. The way he held himself. The way he dressed. The company he kept.

 

Carson Steele had been a loner.

 

Joker had a band of brothers. A huge family of good, kind people.

 

Suddenly, it occurred to me with blinding clarity that Aaron had sensed the same. That was why he’d studied Joker so closely. He’d even asked him if he knew him!

 

And last, Joker knew me. He’d known who I was the second he approached me on I-25. He’d gone completely still, staring at me.

 

He knew me.

 

Then.

 

And since.

 

And he didn’t say anything. I told him my name, and he didn’t say he knew me and I knew him.

 

He didn’t say anything.

 

Why didn’t he say anything?

 

He’d even pretended he’d forgotten my name!

 

“Carrie?” he called when he stopped close.

 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I whispered, looking deep into his eyes.

 

They hadn’t been blunt steel back then. He was too young to have had time to build up that guard. Every girl in school could read the tortured brooding of the mysterious outsider who was Carson Steele right from his eyes. Every girl had wanted to soothe his savaged soul.

 

Every girl in school.

 

Including me.

 

It was then I knew. I knew in the single most humiliating moment in my life why he’d done what he’d done.

 

Back in the day he’d liked me. He’d smiled at me. He’d been cool with me. He’d given me chin lifts. And that awful night when I saw him beaten up (again) and set on running away, he’d given me his time.

 

And so much more.

 

That more being the next day in my locker when he gave me beauty.

 

And hope.

 

Hope that had died but I’d felt it, knowing that he’d taken his time to get to my locker and give that to me.

 

So it wasn’t that he’d wanted to make a high school mean girl pay (though, I wasn’t a mean girl, I just hung with them so I was guilty by association, still, Carson Steele was smarter than that).

 

No.

 

It was because he felt sorry for me. The cheerleader. The homecoming queen. The quarterback’s girl. Reduced to nearly nothing, stranded on the side of the road, in her twenties and divorced with a baby, no friends, no family, no money, a horrible car, cheap clothes, a job at a grocery store.

 

He felt sorry for me.

 

“Say anything about what?” he asked, taking me out of my abysmal thoughts.

 

And in doing so, making that humiliation burn so deep, I knew if I didn’t let some of what I was feeling out, it’d destroy me.

 

Therefore, I shrieked, “About anything, Carson Steele!”

 

His head jerked. His face changed. And the air in the room went flat.