Fight Or Flight (Tempted Series Generation 2.0)

by Janine Infante Bosco

She nods.

  “You should be a poet.”

  That’s one I’ve never heard before.

  “I can’t rhyme for shit.”

  She laughs softly, then points a finger to the bike.

  “May I?”

  Before I can comprehend her words, she walks toward the bike and slowly runs her hand over the body of it. Then she obliterates my whole fucking world by taking hold of the handlebars. It happens in slow motion, or at least it does in my head. She throws her leg over the seat and straddles the bike and I swear on everything Holy; I’ve never seen anything hotter.

  I’m never going to be able to sleep again.

  Every time I close my eyes, I’m going to picture her legs hugging the chrome masterpiece. I’m going to recall the way her hands looked so tiny wrapped around the handlebars and the way she bit her lip as she got used to the feel of her dad’s bike.

  Friends.

  Yeah. Fucking. Right.

  Her eyes slide up to meet mine and a shy smile spreads across her lips.

  “How ridiculous do I look?”

  Ridiculous is not the right word.

  “Don’t answer that,” she says with a laugh.

  Don’t worry, I couldn’t if I tried.

  Aside from my brain malfunctioning, I think I just swallowed my tongue.

  “Do you ride?” she questions.

  I shake my head.

  Honestly, I’ve never had the desire. I can barely manage four wheels and a fucking gear shift, imagine trying to balance two wheels and a throttle. However, staring at Brooklyn, I’m suddenly considering it. Fuck my license. Anyone can drive a car, but not everyone can ride a Harley with a pretty little hurricane on the back. Maybe it’s time I ask Papadukes to teach me how to ride.

  She sighs, dropping her hands from the handlebars, and in one swift move she dismounts like a fucking pro.

  Like it’s in her blood.

  That makes me smile.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I say, finally finding my voice. I guess I didn’t swallow my tongue after all. She yawns, and that’s my cue to wrap this up. Tomorrow will be another emotional day she needs to conquer.

  “Come on,” I coax. “You look like you’re about to fall on your face.”

  I go to turn and head for the door, but she calls my name. Glancing over my shoulder, my eyes meet hers.

  “Thank you.”

  Those two words are like a dagger to my chest. I don’t want her gratitude.

  “Please, don’t thank me.”

  I never thanked your dad.

  “But—”

  “Friends,” I croak.

  Confusion mars her features, but she quickly schools them.

  “Friends,” she repeats.

  “Yeah, you can never have too many of those, right?”

  “Right.”

  I’ll say it again for the people in the back…

  Yeah. Fucking. Right.

  Nine

  Brooklyn

  A normal teenage girl would’ve spent the last three days overanalyzing the night in the garage with Eric. She would’ve called all her girlfriends and recounted every sweet thing he said and all the ways he stared at her. She might even tell her mom. But my friends were back in Connecticut, and they didn’t even know that I had up and moved without so much as a goodbye text. Telling my mom wasn’t an option either because she was too busy dying.

  So, I immediately pushed those stolen moments in the garage to the back of my head and reminded myself I was not a normal teen.

  I didn’t have time for butterflies and boys.

  I needed to be strong.

  Brave.

  A hurricane.

  It was easy to dismiss the butterflies, but the boy who gave them to me was another story. Eric avoided me like the plague and no matter how much I tried not to obsess over that and focus on my mom, I’d find myself wondering if I imagined the way he stared at me when I was sitting on my dad’s bike.

  Even now, as I sit here jotting down everything from the conversation I had with my mom moments before she fell asleep, I can’t stop thinking about the boy standing outside the window washing his dad’s truck. Well, I think he’s waxing his dad’s truck. One minute he’s got a rag in his hand, the next he’s holding a paintbrush painting the fence. It’s very strange, but that seems to be the Montgomery mantra.

  A knock sounds on the bedroom door, startling me for a second. I turn my head and spot Riggs, dressed in his signature leather vest, leaning against the doorjamb. His gaze slides from my sleeping mom to me and his lips curl into a small smile.

  “How she doing?” he whispers, careful not to wake her.

  They may be strange, but they are incredibly thoughtful, especially him. Over the last three days, he’s been in and out of the house, but as soon as his pipes are parked, he checks in on me and my mom. At night, after they get Bella to bed, he and Lauren sit with us. The first night, the four of us watched a movie together. The second night, we bundled up and Riggs carried my mom out to the yard where they had a firepit and told us stories about my dad. My favorite story was how my dad gave Riggs his road name. Apparently, that’s a big deal for a biker and Riggs was expecting his best friend to give him a total bad-ass nickname. Instead, my dad paid homage to his roots and the million-dollar Montgomery family business by naming him after an oil rig. I’m still wondering why he calls himself Tiger, though.

  Drawing my attention back to my mom, my eyes instantly fall to her chest and I wait for it to rise and fall. It’s a habit I’ve adapted over the last few days.

  “She’s getting more and more tired,” I admit.

  The doctors warned us this would happen and said it was a sign of her body shutting down. But knowing what to expect doesn’t make it any easier.

  Riggs pushes off the doorjamb and strides toward me, taking a seat on the chair next to me. He doesn’t say anything at first and the more he looks at my mom, I wonder if he’s counting her breaths too.

  “She’s comfortable, though, right? No pain or discomfort?” he asks, still keeping his eyes on her.

  I lift my gaze from her chest and eye the intravenous drip that supplies her with pain meds. Thank God for Lauren’s brief stint as a nursing student. She changes the bag and has been acting as my mom’s personal nurse, bathing her, and feeding her too.

  “Not that I know of,” I reply, bringing my eyes back to him. He cups my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze before tipping his chin to the notebook in my lap.

  “Whatcha got there?”

  I glance at the notebook and feel my cheeks heat with embarrassment as I close it and tuck the pen in the spiral binding.

  “It’s silly…” My voice trails as I bite the inside of my cheek. After a moment, I find the courage to answer the question. “I’ve been writing some of the things she says down so that when she’s gone, I don’t forget them.” As soon as the words leave me, I feel the tears flood my eyes, but I force myself to hold them at bay. I’ve cried in front of this man way too many times.

  Be a hurricane.

  “That’s not silly,” he objects and surprises me by draping his arm around my shoulders. He brings me close and drops a kiss on the top of my head. “I think it’s beautiful. You know your good pal Riggs knows a thing or two about electronics. I can set you up with a GoPro and we can record mom. I’ll transfer everything onto a thumb drive and that way whenever you want to see your mom or hear her voice, all you have to do is plug it in and press play.”

  I had thought about recording her with my phone, but every time I reached for it, I stopped myself because I felt the early onset of tears and the last thing I wanted was to cry in front of my mom.

  Be strong.

  Be brave.

  Be a hurricane.

  Maybe if someone else did it, I wouldn’t be an emotional wreck.

  “I’d like that,” I say hoarsely, and Riggs flashes me a smile.

  “Consider it done. I’ll get my equipment out of t
he garage and we can get started right away, but why don’t you take a break for a little while? I’ll sit with her.”

  I know he means well, but what if she wakes up and I’m not here? When all you got left is a couple of days, you don’t want to miss a single second.

  “Just for a little bit,” he adds, glancing back at my mom. “I made a promise to your mom and I need you to trust me right now so I can fulfill that promise.”

  That spikes my curiosity, and I narrow my eyes at him as he turns to me.

  “There’s something I want to show you.”

  Before I can object, he holds out his hand for me to take. I can’t leave him hanging, not when he’s yet to let me fall. Without thinking too much into it, I lay my notebook on the nightstand and place my hand in his. He smiles at me and pulls me to my feet. I blow a kiss to my sleeping mom and let him lead me out of her room, down the hall to the front door. He pauses to retrieve my jacket from the coat closet and helps me slide my arms through the sleeves.

  As soon as we step outside my eyes drift to where Eric is switching between painting and waxing his dad’s truck. Maybe he has ADD or something, either way, he looks miserable. Suddenly, he turns around and our eyes lock. The paintbrush falls from his hand as he stares at me. Those stupid butterflies must not have gotten the memo that I don’t have time for silly crushes. They flutter just as strongly as they did three nights ago, and like an idiot, I wave at him.

  Luckily, Riggs realizes I’m not following him across the front lawn and calls my name, sparing me from further making a fool of myself. I quickly look away from Eric.

  “Sorry,” I mutter to Riggs.

  Drawing my jacket closed, I pull the zipper up and stalk across the lawn. When I reach him, his gaze is trained on his son and there is a smirk on his lips. I don’t look back at Eric, but I’m curious as to why his father is so amused by his bizarre behavior.

  “Why is he painting the fence and waxing the car at the same time?”

  “Penance,” Riggs replies smugly, bring his eyes back to me. This time I can’t help myself. I glance back at Eric and sure as shit he’s switched from painting the fence to waxing the car. I swear he seemed so normal the other night.

  Shaking my head, I look back at Riggs.

  “What did he do?”

  He crosses his arms against his chest and raises an eyebrow.

  “Well, for starters, he stole his uncle’s car which he then proceeded to wreck by crashing into your mom’s car.”

  The sudden urge to defend Eric claws at me. Sure, robbing the car was intentional, but I don’t believe he purposely rear-ended my mom.

  “But that was an accident,” I argue.

  Riggs chuckles.

  “He accidentally robbed his uncle’s car?”

  “No, I mean hitting my mom’s car—I don’t think he meant to do that.”

  “Of course he didn’t,” Riggs agrees.

  He sighs and looks toward the house for a second before bringing his gaze back to me. Lowering his voice, he continues, “Between you and me? I’d let him off the hook. I mean, I’ve stolen a car or two.” He pauses and cocks his head to the side. “Stole a lot more than that from the Red Dragons,” he says thoughtfully. “Shit, that’s really not a story for you. Forget I said that.”

  “Forgotten,” I assure him with a smile. He really is a little crazy.

  “But Kitten insists on teaching him a lesson, so here we are. Just call me Mr. Miyagi.”

  My brows knit together.

  “Mr. Who?”

  As soon as I ask the question his eyes go wide.

  “You’ve never seen The Karate Kid?” he admonishes.

  “Um…no.”

  He shakes his head and drags his fingers through his salt and pepper hair.

  “Fuck, I’m old,” he mutters. “It’s a movie. The kid wants to learn karate, so he hooks up with this guy named Mr. Miyagi and Mr. Miyagi makes him paint the fence and wax the car. The kid gets frustrated and says ‘you know, you told me you were going to teach me karate, but instead, you got me waxing the car and painting your fence. That’s not a direct quote, but the kid is pissed as fuck. Shit. I mean, he’s mad. Really mad.

  I have no idea where he’s going with this, but he seems very passionate about telling me this story. I mean, his hands are flying and he’s even changing his voice to sound like what I’m assuming is this karate kid that he speaks of. Suddenly, his face grows serious, and he adapts some sort of broken English accent and continues.

  “Mr. Miyagi tells him that not everything is as black and white as it seems. That he taught the kid plenty, and he tells the kid to show him how he waxes the car.”

  Yeah, my soon to be guardian is crazy with a capital C.

  “The kid does as he’s told,” Riggs continues, moving his hands in a circular motion. “Wax on, wax off,” he says, using that horrid accent of his. “Wax on, wax off.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “You see where I’m going with this?”

  I shake my head.

  I think maybe he does drugs.

  He sighs exasperatedly and drops his hands to his sides.

  “Show me how to paint the fence.”

  My eyes bulge. Surely he can’t be talking to me. I glance behind me, expecting to find Eric standing close by, but it’s just me and the Mr. Miyagi wannabe.

  Staring at him, I protest, “Me? I don’t know how to paint a fence.”

  He flicks his wrist.

  “Up and down like this,” he instructs and sure enough, I start mimicking the motion. Right there on the front lawn, I paint an invisible fence with invisible paint and an invisible paintbrush. I think it’s the water. There’s something in it. They say it’s the reason the bagels are so good in New York, but I think it makes everyone a little crazy too.

  “That’s it,” he cheers. “You’re painting the fence too! Now, in the movie, the kid starts to realize all these little moves—the wax on and off thing and the up and down thing—they’re all vital to karate.”

  With my hand still moving up and down, I narrow my eyes and try to understand the logic behind this. Whenever I did something wrong, my mom and I would talk things out. By the end of the conversation, I’d apologize, and we’d be done with it. This…is…I’m not sure what this is.

  “So, you’re teaching him karate?”

  “All Kitten said was that I needed to teach him a lesson, she didn’t say what lesson and this way I’m teaching him two. Three, really, because after this shit he ain’t gonna want to lift a stick of gum, much less the keys to his uncle’s BMW. His arms are going to ache for weeks.”

  Don’t laugh.

  It’s rude.

  “Um, you can stop that now,” he says, pointing to my flailing hand. “You’re going to hurt yourself.” He moves to stand behind me and places both hands on my shoulders, turning me toward the street. “Now, for the reason, I brought you out here. Surprise!”

  I stare at the street, waiting for something to pop out at me, but all I see is his bike and my mother’s car.

  Wait, a minute.

  My mother’s car…

  The last I saw her car it was parked in front of Kate’s with the back bumper sitting in the street. Now, it’s attached to the car and there’s a fresh sheen of black paint and I think those are tinted windows.

  Turning to Riggs, I stare at him with what I’m sure is a dumbfounded expression.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, your mom told me you have your license and I figure that’s an asset to have around here since the karate kid over there can’t seem to remember to put the damn thing in park.”

  “But—”

  “Your mom asked me to have it repaired for you,” he explains as he reaches into his leather vest. Pulling out a key ring, he hands it to me. “Pipe put new brakes and tires on it. All the cool kids have tints, so we slapped those bad boys on there too. If you get pulled over, there’s a PBA card in the glove box.”

  “Are you serious right now?�
� I ask.

  “Not about the PBA card, but yes, the car is yours.” He smiles and takes my hand. Turning it over, he drops the keys into my palm. “Take it for a spin.”

  Shocked, I close my fist around the keys and look back at the car. The only reason I even got my license in the first place was so I’d be able to drive my mom to and from chemo, and mostly that’s what I did. I didn’t go joyriding or out with my friends. I didn’t even use it to drive to and from school. Now, my mom is giving it to me and it’s probably the last thing she’ll ever give me.

  “While you’re at it, why don’t you go pick up a couple of pizzas for dinner?” he says, handing me a hundred-dollar bill.

  Swallowing, I try to find my voice.

  “I’m from Connecticut,” I blurt. My voice is hoarse, and tears are stinging my eyes. “I don’t know where the pizzeria is.”

  I don’t know where the pizzeria is, and my mom just gave me her car.

  And you…you strange man…you fixed it and gave me tinted windows, so I’d fit in with the cool kids.

  I don’t know if I should laugh or cry.

  “Take the karate kid with you. Eric!”

  It’s hard to cry when Riggs offers a big dose of humor with everything he does. He makes people want to smile through their pain and if that’s not a gift, I’m not really sure what is. Still a little flabbergasted, my eyes shift to Eric who stands across the lawn and I watch as he drops the paintbrush on the grass. Riggs crooks a finger, silently ordering him to join us and Eric, the ever-obedient karate kid, jogs toward us.

  “I’m almost done with the fence.”

  “Fuck the fence,” Riggs says. “You learned your lesson.”

  “I did?”

  “Show me how you paint the fence.”

  This time I don’t give myself a chance to think about it. I do what comes naturally, and a giggle slips past my lips. Confusion mars Eric’s features as his eyes jump from me to his dad.

  “What?”

  “Up and down,” I instruct, mimicking the motion Riggs taught me. Eric looks at me like I’ve lost my mind and maybe I have. It sure feels that way. Arching an eyebrow, he follows my lead and flicks his wrist up and down. A proud grin spreads across Riggs’ face and he claps his son on the back.