For You(26)
Author: Mimi Strong

“I am?”

“Always leave ’em wanting more.” He pushed back in his chair, stood, and nodded for us to go.

Outside in the cool night air, as I was fastening the chin strap of my helmet, he said, “Wanna learn to ride?” He held out the keys, his face lit only by passing headlights and red taillights.

“Don’t I need a permit or something?”

“Spoilsport,” he teased.

An elderly man with a hunched-up back approached us, mumbling something incomprehensible.

“Sorry, man,” Sawyer said, but I was already reaching into my pocket for some change.

The man’s expression turned hopeful and he trained his watery, pale blue eyes on me, shuffling closer. I could see by the angle of his jaw he had no teeth, and his gaunt cheeks told me he was thin under his clothes. His top layer was a woman’s ski jacket—pink—and it might have appeared funny to people who had never been truly poor.

I handed him all the change from my pocket, which included some two-dollar coins.

He muttered a blessing that was far too generous for the small amount I’d given him, and shuffled off into the dark night.

Sawyer said, “Now I feel like a dick. Wait. Hang on.” He handed me his helmet and loped off after the guy.

I watched, my arms getting goosebumps from the cold night air, as he talked to the guy for a few minutes and emptied out his pockets into the man’s hands.

When Sawyer came back, he had his head down, and he took back the helmet quietly.

We got on the motorcycle, and I looped my arms around his waist without hesitation. I hung on tight, and because he couldn’t see my face, I allowed myself to cry.

I cried because the world was beautiful.

When we pulled up in front of my building, the little wannabe-gangsters were in full force around the front door. The kids were in their early teens, and one or two of them lived in the building. They were more annoying than actually scary, but I tried to avoid them.

As soon as Sawyer turned off the engine, I heard their strident voices, calling out and demanding we go buy them alcohol. When I didn’t respond, a few started calling me a stuck-up bitch.

I saw something flash in Sawyer’s eyes—a look that scared me. “Which one of them lives here?” he asked me.

“I’ve seen the stupid-looking one around a lot. Red jacket. He’s harmless, though. Don’t worry about him.”

Sawyer had his helmet off, his wavy brown hair still flattened down and plastered to his forehead. We were in the dark, at the edge of the light shed by the security lights at the front of the apartment building.

“He’s not harmless,” he said, growling and looking like a big dog who just saw a pack of mutts step into his yard.

“Calm down, they’re all talk.”

“He just pulled out a knife and flashed it at that other kid.”

I squinted their way. Sawyer could see that amount of detail from where we were?

Holding onto his arm, I said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll just go around to the side entrance.”

He shrugged his arm from my hands and strode across the front lawn, then straight into the middle of them.

I stayed where I was, my feet frozen to the pavement.

They seemed to talk for a minute, the five teens—all shorter than Sawyer, but not by much—circling around like wily pack animals. One of the guys—not the one who lived in the building—acted like he was walking away, then turned quickly and snuck up behind Sawyer.

Before I could yell out a warning, the kid punched Sawyer in the back of the head. Big mistake. Sawyer whipped around, all fists and fury. The kid was knocked flat to the ground, and when the next one came at Sawyer, he was sent flying back, and I heard the slam as he hit the glass building door behind him.

Oh, f**k.

Chapter Twelve

I started running toward them, but my shoes weren’t made for running and one of them started pulling off my foot, tripping me. By the time I got to my feet again, the skirmish was over. The visiting kids ran off, and the one who lived there had his head bowed, using his key to open the door. He’d been the one tossed back into the glass.

I tore open the door, praying the kid wasn’t hurt.

Inside the lobby, I heard Sawyer was saying, “If you’ll apologize to Aubrey, I think she’ll forgive you and not tell your mother what just happened.”

The kid turned to me, his chocolate-brown eyes pleading and large. He was breathing rapidly, shaken, but not broken. Now that I could see he wasn’t hurt, I could be properly pissed at him.

The kid cried out, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything! I was joking.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “Stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours.”

Sawyer released his grip on the boy’s jacket, and he darted away, down the hallway.

I didn’t know whether to give Sawyer holy hell or thank him, so I just pulled open the door to the stairwell and started up the stairs.

Sawyer stood in the doorway and called up after me, “I probably shouldn’t walk you to your door. Your husband might grab me by my jacket collar and give me a talking-to, right?”

I stopped and turned my head to the side. “There is no husband.”

Then I closed my eyes and held my breath.

I heard his foots on the carpeted stairs behind me, and then I heard his breathing.

We walked up to the third floor in silence, and I opened the apartment door without looking his way. I winced at the familiar sight of dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. At least the place smelled decent, thanks to a peach-scented air freshener I had plugged into the outlet on the stove.

“Sorry,” I muttered as I flicked on the light switches. “My place is a disaster.”

“Dude, you’ve seen my place.” He stopped and kicked off his shoes in the tight entrance, then followed me into the kitchen and stopped at the fridge, admiring the artwork by Bell that surrounded his drawing of the frog.

I pulled off my shoes and tossed them back to the doorway. “You Canadians,” I said. “Always taking your shoes off in the house and making me feel like I have no manners.”

Without taking his eyes off the drawings, he said, “You did mention you were raised by wolves.”

Did I? Was that to him? I couldn’t keep track of my stories anymore, and now I’d just admitted there was no husband, whatever that meant. Should I say there is one, but he lives in America? Or that we’re recently separated?

“I’ve never been married,” I said.

He nodded, still looking at Bell’s drawings.

“I’ve never even had a real boyfriend.”

“That’s hard to believe.” He glanced over at me, looking sexy and dangerous. “Wait, no. It’s easy to believe. You push people away.”