“Yeah,” Jace said, his voice dreamy and longing. It was the way I imagined a schoolboy fawning over his secret crush. Part of me felt jealous about the bike in that instant; another part of me defensively wanted to claim it as my own before he could. None of me was embarrassed by either of those responses. “It really is something, isn’t it? The thrill of… well, all of it, I mean.”
I blushed and nodded. “Is that how it always feels for you? You don’t, like, get used to it or numb to it?” I asked, dreading the response.
He shook his head and then looked back at the motorcycle, staring at it for a long while. “A friend of mine used to say that riding was like sex: you might get familiar with it, but you never get tired of it. I liked the way that sounded when he said it, but then I lost interest in sex.”
It was my turn to say, “You too?” Then, feeling it was necessary to elaborate on that statement, I added, “I can still take pleasure in it, I suppose, but it’s just been so long since all of it actually meant something that it feels more like work than anything else. I mean,” I chuckled nervously, “I guess, for me, it is work… but I like to imagine that maybe, at some point, I can remember what it’s supposed to be again…”
His gaze shifted to me then, and I saw his expression change. Though it was hard for me to place the emotion, he seemed both shocked and somehow relieved to hear me say that. It was the look I imagined a person giving when they’d discovered something they’d long since given up searching for.
And then it hit me: it was the first time somebody had understood how Jace felt about the subject.
No wonder he doesn’t care about what I do for a living, I thought with a sort of mortified relief. It felt wonderful to know that he wasn’t faking his “who cares”-tone towards me being a prostitute, but I hated thinking that he had to be somehow broken to feel that way.
Then again, didn’t I have to be broken in my own way to not be scared away by the life he lived? Weren’t we, in our own busted, fucked-up ways, perfectly sculpted to understand the other?
The depth and complexity of this thought process scared me, and I forced myself to swim away from deeper, more complex thoughts. Instead, I forced a smile—sincere, but forced all the same—and asked, “So, where are we headed? Can I know now?”
He smirked and nodded, gesturing across the street to the library.
“The library?” I raised my eyebrow at him, “Really?”
He nodded, beaming. “Yup! They have their annual book sale going on right now. I go every year.” He looked back, seemed to consider something, and then frowned. “Why?” he asked, “Do you not—”
I didn’t let him finish. I was already starting out in that direction at a near-sprint. An elated squeal trailed behind me as I went, and, though I knew I should have been embarrassed about that, I felt somehow safe in showing my excitement.
Jace was beside me in an instant, matching my eager pace, and he held his hand out to me. I took it without a second thought, the contact sparking within me and making my smile grow that much wider, and we made our way out of the parking garage. The afternoon sun still hung, bright and satisfied in the sky, and I couldn’t help but think that the day was already going perfectly. Between the amazing ride and now the chance to surround myself in one of my most guilty of pleasures? It was… well, perfect!
Absolutely perfect!
And, in its perfection, I found myself growing evermore curious about Jace. I glanced over at him as we started across the street, my intrigue swelling. Though it was, in my opinion, the perfect choice for a date, I knew that a library book sale wasn’t exactly the first choice many people would make. Truth be told, it probably didn’t even rank in many peoples’ Top-Ten. So what made Jace an exception to that rule? What sort of life had a bad boy, motorcycle gang leader also being an unabashed book nerd? I figured it was no less intriguing than the sort of story behind a person like me—a “booker hooker” as Candy sometimes called me—but, admittedly, mine was a pretty unconventional story, as well.
I realized with some embarrassment that I’d crossed the street, hand-in-hand with Jace, in a total daze. One moment we were exiting the parking garage, the majestic, towering library awaiting us on the other side of four lanes of traffic, and the next we were starting up the concrete steps. Fliers hung around us, and the nearer we got to the entrance the larger these became until we were greeted by four large, hand-written posters advertising the event.
“ANNUAL BOOK SALE!! $5 A BAG – AS MUCH AS YOU CAN CARRY!!”
“Bag?” I asked, following Jace in.
“Mm-hmm,” he nodded, smiling back at me as he moved to hold the door open for me.
I froze momentarily at the gesture, my newer instincts shorting out my understanding of what was happening. Finally, remembering the “old ways”—and suddenly hating that I thought of them that way—I nodded my thanks and stepped through. The entire exchange only lasted a few seconds, but it felt longer to me; long enough to catch me off guard as he continued with the explanation:
“It’s easier to think of this less as a sale and more as an annual book purge,” he said, following me in. “The library winds up with a surplus of old books. A lot of what they get are donations, others are sent in from here-or-there, and the rest of it cycles titles between other libraries. If somebody here wants a book that’s only available, say, two towns over, they’ll request it be sent over. Because of this, the library doesn’t really need to take in a bunch of books, but the donations and shipments come in all the same. All year round. So they wind up with a lot of updated copies, lots of duplicates—you can’t imagine how many copies of Twilight they got a few years back; every day there were, like, a dozen-or-so copies in their donations bin—and the books that just get too old to maintain circulation. So the book sale gives them a chance to move some of that extra product out. So all we have to do is get a bag—or bags—” he winked at me, “and start filling ‘em as much as you can with whatever looks good.”
I stared out at all the folding tables waiting inside for us. All of them were littered with old books; not an inch of table surface visible, and each mountain of various titles almost taller than me.
“Wow!” I gasped, feeling myself begin to bounce on my heels. And I can take as many as will fit in a bag for only five bucks?”
Jace shook his head, scoffing. “You can take as many as you want,” he corrected me. “I don’t care how many bags it takes.” Then, considering his words, he offered a shrug, “I mean, we’re gonna have to ride back, so I guess try to keep it limited to what you can carry. But if you wind up splurging I can always get the extras shipped back to your apartment.”
I felt my cheeks go hot at that. “You’d be willing to do that for me?” I asked.
He actually laughed as though I’d told a joke. “I handed over five grand before I even knew you, Mia,” he reminded me, “and, in return, you probably saved my life. Do you think a few five dollar bags of books is going to be a deal breaker?”
My cheeks went hotter.
Jace laughed at my reaction and went to the cashier, paying for two bags—joking that we’d probably be back for more—and handed me one. “Shall we?”
“This is incredible!” I exclaimed again, snatching up the bag and then, unable to help myself, throwing my arms around him. “Thank you! I’ve been wanting to get out this way since I moved here. It just wasn’t on the bus route and my schedule wasn’t…”
I looked down, not wanting to be reminded of my work. I wanted this time with Jace to be ours; to have a chance, if just for even a moment, to forget. For the first time in a long time, I felt like the Mia that I’d been before. Before I became a means for T-Built to make back what my brother had all-but stolen from the Carrion Crew debt; before I was forced into a life filled with one regret after the other.
Candy had been right: even if it wasn’t meant to be—even if it was doomed to failure—nothing that ever happened could take away the moment I was having with J
ace.
“You okay?” Jace asked pulled me from my thoughts.
“Y-yeah,” I blushed at being caught zoning out. “Just… thinking.”
“Good thoughts, I hope,” he said, his face beginning to cross a bridge into concern.
Afraid of souring the moment, I nodded quickly and smiled a pure, genuine smile. “Great thoughts,” I assured him.
“Good,” he said, and then started to lead me to the closest of the tables. “Now, come! Bulk literature awaits!”
By the time Jace and I were descending the library’s front steps, three bags crammed with books to show for it, nearly an hour had passed. Though I was certain we could have easily spent more time and filled more bags, we’d agreed that a bag each and a third, “communal” bag of titles that we’d both expressed an interest in would do for the time being. That, and Jace assured me that the sale went on all month, which meant there’d be plenty of opportunities to take advantage of their “purging” another day.
“And, when that day comes,” he’d said, already speaking of it in the definite, “I’ll be sure to bring a truck instead of just my bike.”
He’d insisted on carrying the bags, easily bundling them in his left hand so that he could take my own in his right, and we crossed the street and started for the parking garage. I bit my lip as we drew nearer, a strange dread sweeping over me at the thought that he’d be taking me back home soon. While I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting—certainly not this—I was certain that I didn’t want it to end.
But Jace, being the seemingly perfect, noble, honest, and suave mind-reader that he surely must have been—and not even he could convince me otherwise—not only caught on to my panicked thoughts, but said exactly what I needed to hear to end them:
“My place is about a block from here,” he said casually, no sense of obligation or impatience in his tone. “We can drop off the books, hydrate, and then be off to our next location.”
“Next location?” I grinned, realizing this meant he’d already planned to keep the night going. “Do I get to know this one?”
“Nope. Spoils the fun,” he said with a wink, setting our books into the saddlebags on either side of the motorcycle’s rear before handing me the helmet.
“You know,” I said as I pulled it on and slid onto the bike behind him, “this sort of reminds me of a book I read once. Perfect date with too-good-to-be-true guy who insisted on mystery locations. Not to spoil it, but he turned out to be a vampire and it didn’t end well for the girl.”
Jace looked over his shoulder at me, a grin plastered on his face. “‘Too-good-to-be-true,’ huh?” he asked.
I blushed at that and, trying to keep my cool, forced myself to roll my eyes. “That’s all that you took from that?” I demanded.
He nodded and shrugged. “Sure,” he said, already starting to laugh before he’d had a chance to get the rest of his words out, “makes the murder and blood-drinking at the end of this date difficult if I confess to it now, doesn’t it?”
Then we were both laughing, and, without any prompting, I wrapped my arms around his waist. Jace started the bike, toe-stepped us back and out of the parking spot, and then started out. We began to move through the city at a steady pace—fast enough to graze the whimsical sensation I’d felt on the freeway, but slow enough to not be suicidal in the growing evening traffic—and, before long, we were slowing again, this time pulling into the underground parking garage of a set of condos. I gaped at the place as I watched its entrance grow with our approach and finally swallow us.
Jace navigated us past rows of Jaguars and BMWs and Mercedes, the cars seeming to spike up the value of the building and its tenants more and more with each new space we passed. Then, arriving at an open spot that already wore a few tire tracks from a motorcycle, he pulled in and parked. I paused, gawking around at all the fancy cars that surrounded us, while Jace began to collect the bags. Then, once again consolidating them into his left hand, he reached out his right towards me. For a moment I thought he was reaching out to take my hand—about to lead me up to his home—but, instead, he held his hand up, palm out, in a gesture for me to wait. I frowned, confused, wondering if he was just going to leave me there while he went up. Instead, he walked back, past me, and started towards a small booth manned by a single, formally-dressed attendant. The man, an older gentleman with shiny buttons and an old-timey hat, bowed his head in recognition at Jace’s approach. They talked for a moment, their distant voices an unintelligible pair of hums through the helmet I was still wearing, and then the man nodded again as Jace handed him the bags. A pair of smiles were shared, a few more words exchanged, and then I saw Jace pass something over to the man’s free hand. This, I guessed, was a tip for delivering the bags to his condo. A moment later, Jace was heading back.
“So…” I began, still awestruck by what I’d seen, “you just have someone who can take your bags upstairs for you?”
He chuckled and shook his head, settling into his seat. “It’s not part of his job normally, no. He just keeps an eye on the place, makes sure loiterers and thieves don’t try to sneak in and makes sure that people get safely from their condos to their cars and vice-versa.”
“So what makes you an exception?” I asked.
“I talk to him,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t pretend he’s invisible or act like he belongs there for my wellbeing. Also I never not give him something extra for his trouble.” He paused for a long moment, seeming to juggle a decision to say more. Then, offering another shrug and starting the engine, he added, “And a while back I helped him out of some trouble that he was having.”
I frowned at that, leaning against him and hugging myself to his waist as he started to toe-walk us out of the spot. “What kind of trouble?”
“The Carrion kind,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. It’s in the past, and I’ve got much more important things to think about right now.”
I looked up at that, but only saw the back of his head as he started to drive us back out the way we’d come. “Like what?” I asked.
“You,” he said.
Still swooning from Jace’s words, I was only distantly aware of our surroundings as we zipped and wove through a series of vacant, winding streets. Traffic had started to thin, and the path that Jace had chosen seemed almost ours. There was an occasional set of headlights and the hum of a passing car in the opposite lane, and on a few occasions I saw the sharp, twin eyes of taillights ahead of us a moment before Jace would swing us into the other lane and put them behind us. The exhilaration returned, this time without the almost suicidal “what if,” which had since been replaced with an almost meditative Zen.
The hum of the engine.
The sensation of the bike’s vibrations and Jace’s muscles working in sync against my body.
The scent of the evening air.
It was easy to drift, to lull, into a sense of peace. Buildings and streetlights became trees and shrubs, which then became a scattering of woods divided by quaint little homes, their lights cutting through the branches and creating flashes of shadows as we passed. Then there was water to our left, and I realized that we’d begun following a road that ran parallel to a canal. This canal, I realized, following its path, meandered towards a small village that waited, maybe a mile-or-two ahead; its combined lights seeming to act as a beacon. This, it turned out, was our next destination.
“Wow,” I whispered as we slipped onto the main street, taking in the sights of the small, independent shops and storefronts.
“Nice, isn’t it?” Jace replied. “I grew up here.”
“Why’d you move to the city?” I frowned.
“Needed to be closer for work,”
He sounded so far off that I decided not to push the subject any further and instead, continued to look around the town. I noticed a large banner that had been stretched out between a grocer and a hardware store, extending over the street.
“What is ‘Canal Days’?” I asked, reading it as we
passed under it.
“It’s why we’re here,” Jace said matter-of-factly. “It’s a festival they do here. Vendors, artists, food tents,” he shrugged. “Pretty much anything you could think of. There’s plenty to do, believe me, but…” he paused as he pulled over to park along the side of the road beside a pharmacy that advertised over a dozen different types of ice cream floats in the window, “there’s a couple here—a family, I should say—who are here every year selling these candied almonds. I think they’re, like, the second or third generation to carry on the recipe, and I can remember my old man taking us here when I was a kid. Those nuts are something of a tradition for me.”
“So you brought me here to taste your nuts?” I teased.
“No,” he said, smirking at me as he helped me off the motorcycle. “Not mine. Some old dude’s actually.”
I laughed at that, elated that I could actually find humor in something that was otherwise a cruel reality for me, and it occurred to me just how distant this date was making me feel to my other life.
“My other life.”
Only one date and I was already subconsciously distancing myself from all of that.
Jace really was incredible!
We started forward on foot. At the next intersection, I saw that the road to the left, what started as a bridge that passed over the canal and continued on towards more stores and shops, had been closed off to host the event. Ahead, the sounds of live music and people filled the air, which carried with it the wafting aromas of popcorn, grilling meats, and—yes!—candied nuts. My stomach growled and I blushed, moving my hand to my stomach.
“S-sorry,” I chuckled nervously. “I guess I’m hungrier than I thought.”
“Good,” Jace said. “Means I won’t be pigging-out alone.”
Then, taking my hand in his once again, he escorted me into the Canal Days.
We made our way into the crowd and I couldn’t help but grow excited at the rows of tents that housed a myriad of different vendors selling all sorts of goods. As we made our way to the first vendor, a photographer, we both looked through their photos. I smiled, enjoying the moment of just looking at the photos with Jace.
Running On Empty_Crows MC Page 21