Unaffected by the topic, he pulls his bike jacket on, looking so much likemyBronson. The black leather stretches around his manly body and I feel like I want to smile at him again, but it also feels wrong to smile too much today. “I’ll take care of everything. You just need to trust me.” His eyes roll over my face in a thoughtful way. “Will you come for a ride with me? Clear the shit out of your head?”
“If I cleared all the shit out, I’m not sure what would be left,” I admit, because theshitis so heavily wrapped around every memory I have. Dad. Perry. Akila.Him.
“Don’t clear it then, baby. Just organise it. . . Come on, I have something I want to show you.” He grabs his helmet from on top of a chest of drawers. Ducking quickly into the walk-in robe, he reappears with a spare bike jacket and . . .my helmet.I take a quick breath in at the sight of it. It is silver with purple glittery swirls. The perfect helmet for a sixteen-year-old girl.
“She’s been waiting for you,” he says with a smirk. “I’ve got plenty of spares, so I didn’t let anyone else wear her. I did feel sorry for her, though. It’s not her fault I can’t stand to see her on another girl’s head.”
Tears threaten to fill my eyes, but I force them down. I stand up and walk over to his drawer, aware that I’m naked, aware of his eyes as they blaze trails across my skin. I pull out a pair of black sweatpants and one of his t-shirts.
“In the top right drawer,” he says, nodding towards it. “You’ll find some clothes.”
I glance at him sideways, dubious. “I’m not wearing some other slut’s clothes.”
A slow grin moves across his face. “I like it when you’re jealous. Reminds me of good times. . . But don’t worry, baby. They’re Stacey’s. She leaves a heap in Xander’s room. Some might fit you.”
“She’s still always here, hey?” I ask, remembering Xander’s best friend from high school. “Have her and Xander finally got together?”
“No, actually.” He moves closer to me, leaning his shoulder on the wall. “She’s gay.”
“Oh.” Opening up the drawer, I see a tiny pair of jeans and leggings. I spin to face him, my brows knitting together. “These will be tight.”
He hums his satisfaction. “I was hoping so.”
After I pull on a white singlet and squeeze into the dark denim jeans, I grab hold of my old helmet and we head to the garage.
I want to smile again when I see the Ducati. The same red one he had eleven years ago. With all his money, I have no idea why he wouldn’t buy a new one. He’s sentimental, my Bronson. He helps me into the jacket, buttoning it up for me and checking the fit; it’s way too big.
“I’ll get you your own soon,” he says, swinging his leg over the Ducati. When he ignites the engine, he ignites something inside me, too. The roller door shudders to a start, disappearing into the roofline. I walk slowly over, feeling my heart growing and my lungs wanting to breathe deeply.
Sliding on behind him, I band his waist and lift my shoes onto the footrest. He takes off, the growl of the engine not painful to hear like I thought it might be. The last time I saw his bike, heard his bike, it was screaming away from me in a manifestation of his rage. Today though, the growl is thrilling and soothing andus.We are so much more than that day.
We fly around the District streets as if we never left, as if we never lost all this time together. And I decide that I was right all those years ago; the sound of freedom is the growl of his Ducati. Holding him tightly, I watch the streets pass, some with familiarity and others seemingly foreign. It’s my city. It may be corrupt. And I may have not always loved it, but my memory of it involves a sense of invisibility and youth. Of possibility. Of eternity. I felt like he was the king of this town, and I was his queen.
No one could have convinced me otherwise.
That is, not until the day my dad found my diary. Until he showed me what little power I had. What reality really looked like. I sigh, thinking about the past years with Perry. Tears build in my eyes for him. Maybe he had no idea what he was getting into with Jimmy Storm.
I’d like to think he was led astray.
I’d like to think that, but I don’t believe it.
As we curve around a cliff and head up a steep sandy road, I steady myself. Bronson revs the engine, and the bike soars around like a young vehicle, not like the well-used machine it is. We get to the top of the cliff, slowing down to a stop. My breath is taken away by the view of Connolly, over the rooftops, and in the distance, the ocean - a waving blue abyss stretching to the end of our reality.
We jump off and Bronson helps me with my helmet, his hands taking the opportunity to stroke my jaw and neck. Within my pocket, my phone vibrates. Bronson watches me closely as I retrieve the handset and open the notification. As a selfie of Katie and Akila pops up, my chest tightens. My sister looks the same, vague but beautiful, lost somewhere behind her amber eyes or not there at all. I don’t know which.
I snap a quick selfie before capturing the view. Sending the pictures back, I ask Katie to show Akila where I am.
Where I am. . .
Home.
I breathe in the air; it smells familiar and like rebellion.
“Recognise any of this?” Bronson asks, pulling me back to him. He leads me over to the edge. The wind whips my hair around, so I collect it all up and pull it down one shoulder.
Peering across the tops of houses and over what looks like a light industrial area to the west, I try to recognise something specific. “I don’t recognise this area. . . I mean, I recognise the ocean.”
“Well done.” He chuckles, standing behind me, shielding me from the wind as it whirls up the hill. “Top marks. You really are a scholar, baby. Thatisthe ocean.”