Callum & Harper (2 page)

When I turned around, I saw Callum heading for the door and my stomach clenched in anticipation.

   
Callum

Oh dear Lord, we’re leaving at the same time.
If she hadn’t stopped attempting to hide her smile, I would’ve been forced to reveal my plans to toss the stranger outside against the brick and kiss her face until the sun set.

She passed ahead of me and I caught a whiff of her shampoo, involuntarily sending my eyes into the back of my head. This chick was a walking version of the Pixie’s “Where Is My Mind?”. Sexy. As. Hell. Though, now that I think about it. Is hell
sexy
? I’m guessing not. I continued to watch. Her hips could have kept time with the damn beat.

“
Here, let me get that for you,” I said, throwing open the door. The sun cascaded down her copper hair and made her eyes feel transparent.

“
Thank you,” she shyly said but offered up a cute lopsided grin as if to say ‘good boy’.
Thanks for the bone, buttercup.

She took the wrought iron steps down to the sidewalk two at a time, which told me she was in a hurry and since it was nearly sunset, I was willing to bet that she and I were heading in the same direction. I scrambled at what to say while her feet scurried along the pavement.

She stopped and turned.

“
Uh,” she said, seeming embarrassed. She thought twice for a moment before stiffening her body and raising her chin. “I’m headed to...” Confusion set in. She glanced down at the same piece of paper I, as fate would have it, held in my own hand. “Hope House, on One Hundred and Second,” she finished.

She laughed at our dire situations which was pretty much all you could do.
    “Want a ride?” I asked. She didn’t answer me, obviously not willing to trust me, so I offered, “Listen, by the time you walk there they’ll be closed and definitely won’t have any spaces open. If you ride
with me
, at least we have a chance of getting a spot for the night.”
    She sighed. “A valid point,” she said, looking around for my car.
    I’m embarrassed by this. “Uh, “ I said, scratching the stubble on my chin with the backs of my fingers. “I don’t actually own a car.” I point to my vintage nineteen-fifty Indian motorcycle. “Come on. It’s better than walking, right?” I stuck my hands out in offering.
    She smiled slowly in appreciation, her mouth curling up at the sides and her eyes squinting into the sun. Her head bobbed slowly up and down on her neck. A silent yes. “I’d probably pick this over any car on this street.” She stood back and admired it. “Solid black,” she said. I nodded, intrigued. “Nice,” she simply added.
    “
You think so
? I plan on fixing her up when I get the time and, of course, the money. She’s been good to me, though,” I said, patting the handlebars. “She’s pretty much all I have in this world.” Harper looked at me as if in pity or maybe it was understanding. I really hoped it was understanding because if a girl that beautiful pitied me, I didn’t think I could stand it. “Hop on,” I said. She straddled the back of the leather seat and slid her duffel across her chest to sit behind her. “Uh, you might want to, uh,” I said awkwardly, struggling with how to ask her to push her hair back so I could fit my helmet on her.

Instead, I set the helmet on the seat between her legs and brazenly ran my fingers through her hair. It flowed off her shoulders and settled onto her back. The scent of her shampoo bombarded me one more time and I swayed slightly at the assault but regained my stance. I grabbed the helmet off her lap and fit it onto her head. She giggled at the awkward familiarity of it.

“
Sorry,” I said. “But I wouldn’t dream of putting you on the back of my bike without this.”

   
"No, uh, my parents died in a car accident when I was four,” I said matter-of-factly.
    "Oh, I'm so sorry.” She had the decency to look sincere. That was pretty refreshing, actually.
    "It's alright," I sighed, shrugging my shoulders. "I barely remember them."
    "I don't know
anything
about mine," she said, studying her feet, then realized what she was doing. "Harper Bailey," she said cheerfully, holding out her hand, revealing a dimpled grin.
    I  buckled the clasp around her delicate chin, resting my hands on the top of the helmet playfully. "My name is Callum Tate and I’m going to take care of you, Harper Bailey."
    Her extended hand dropped into her lap. Her eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open. "Wh...
what
did you say?"
   
Shit. Was that was too forward?
"I'm sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I'm Callum Tate. It's a pleasure to meet you, Harper Bailey." I grabbed her thin hand and a shot of warmth crept up my veins and shocked my heart into a frenzy.
    The smile that had so quickly faded before came back with a vengeance. She squeezed my hand in greeting and whispered, "It's very nice to meet you, Callum."
    I climbed on to the front part of the seat and started the engine. Harper settled her hands on the side of my ribs and I couldn't think of anything I wanted more than her arms wound tight against my chest. Suddenly, I couldn't get on the road fast enough.
   
   
Harper
    I think Callum Tate can read minds. It's either that or there was something seriously
strange
going on between the two of us.

He started the motor and pulled the bike up on its wheels, lifting it off its stand and balanced our combined weight effortlessly.

He turned slightly to face me, exposing a flirtatious off-kilter grin, “You might want to hang on.”

My stomach flipped in circles as I tightened my hands around his chest and I could feel his heart beat furiously against my palm which only served to make mine race faster.

“
You okay?” He asked over the purr of the motor.

He revs the motor before placing his left hand over mine. “Hold on tight,” he said as if I’d ever let go. As if I
could
ever let go.

Heat coursed through my arm and when he removes his hand, I felt a lacking I’d never known I could possess.
    The wind whipped my hair behind me as I breathed in the warm summer air, letting it fill my lungs. With each breath he took, his chest expanded tightly against my stomach and hands and I can do nothing to stifle the tingling electricity that came with each one, sending my heart into violent trembles.
    The Hope House is nothing like I thought it would be because it was worse, which is incredible as I expected awful. The building, though old and beautiful in architecture, was dark and extremely dirty, lines of sickly, equally filthy people huddled against the frame of the structure waiting and desperate to hear they have a place to rest their own heads in a cot for the night rather than the alternative and that was more than likely a cardboard box or a bench. I heard three gunshots go off as well as a woman’s screams but the hundreds queued paid no heed, obviously accustomed to the harrowing sounds.

“
Hold on,” he said loudly before popping the curb and settling the bike near a lamp post.

He swung his leg over the seat and unbuckled the strap to my helmet before lifting it from my head.  He grinned mischievously.

“
My hair is stuck to my head at weird angles, isn’t it?” I asked, a blush already descending upon my cheeks.   

   
He studied me carefully before bursting out laughing. “Maybe,” he teased. “Here,” he said, smoothing out the unruly mess. The contact he makes with my skin gives me an involuntary shudder. “Are you cold?” He asked, raising one eyebrow.
    “Uh, no, just...just got a glimpse at where we were and gotta’ admit, I’m a bit un-enthused but beggars can’t be choosers, right?”
    “Poor Harper,” he said with a slight frown. “You most certainly are not a beggar but I will admit we’ve not any choices,” he playfully winked, sending me into yet another frenzy. “Come on.” He placed his hands on my waist and lifted me off the seat.
    “Good gosh, Callum!” I say, lifting my voice to the level of my now boiling blood pressure. His touch is intimidating, making me choke on the sharp inhalation its spark gives to me.
    “What?”
    I’m flustered. “I just wasn’t expecting you to lift me is all.”
    “I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “I’m acting too familiar with you and I just can’t explain why. I’m usually more polite than this. You just affect me differently than most.”
Don’t read too much into that, Harper.
   
“Alright,” he says, wrapping a large, thick chain around his bike and the post beside it before attaching the largest lock I’ve ever seen made. “Shall we?” He gestured toward the rows of people.
    We walked toward the end of the line and sat in uncomfortable silence, each probably wondering if we knew what we were doing.
   
Callum

I don't know what I'm doing.
I think I might have offended her by grabbing her waist without asking. I don't know why I did it either because the last thing I want is to offend this incredible girl.

   
"So, tell me, how were you orphaned?" I asked. Shock colors her face. Nice start there, goofball. Really sensitive. "I'm sor...," I start, but before I can even finish, she bursts out laughing.
    "I've never actually had anyone ask me that so blatantly before yet it doesn't seem like such an unnatural question, seeming as we share the same plight."
    "And what plight is that?" I ask.
    "Oh, I don't know. The one where we meet in the lobby of social services after being kicked out of our foster homes for being afflicted with the 'eighteen disease'. Not to mention the part where we're standing in line together at The Hope House, a relief center that can't accommodate the demands being asked of it."
    "God, you're plucky," I blurted out.
    "You know it, but to answer your question..."
    "What question?"
    "The one where you asked me how I became an orphan?"
    "'Kay."
    She took a deep breath, readying herself to spew the prepared speech all us orphans kept at the tip of our tongues. "I'm not truly an orphan. My mother is alive and I’m hoping well somewhere out there but I've never met her. She left me at the hospital she gave birth to me at, slapped the name Harper on me,  before peacin' it out and wishing me the best.

“
I was adopted almost immediately into a young family who thought they could handle the demands of an infant. When they discovered that they couldn't handle one addicted to drugs, they passed me over. At three, I began the tireless process of being passed around once a year in the foster system. I assume my dad is some deadbeat crackhead, probably doesn't even know I'm alive. Anytime I pass a dude beggin' for change, if he could be my father's age, I slip him a buck or two in hopes he sees something in me he could recognize."

   
"Has it worked?"
    "Nah, but my fingers are crossed," she teased.
    "Wow, that is a sad, pathetic story," I prod.
    "Tell me about it."
    "My story's better than your story, though."
    "That so?" Both her brows are raised in challenge.
    "Yeah, double the pathetic,
quadruple
the sad."
    "No kidding."
    “As I said before, my parents died in a car wreck when I was four. I barely remember either of them. From what I can gather from my limited memories, though, they were loving. I think my father may have been an attorney because he was always on the phone and I remember the words brief, client, and evidence were at the top of his vocabulary.

“
I remember my mother was sweet and kind and that we'd always bake cookies on Sunday after church. It's my only distinct memory of her. I would sit at a kitchen island on a stool and we'd mix all the ingredients, then she'd ask me questions about whatever difficulty my four year old life could conjure up while they baked and when the bell tolled, no pun intended, we'd grab hot cookies, dip them in our milk and life would be peachy.

“
I don't remember the day they died. I suppose I may have blocked it out but I
was
in the car with them and the car seat they paid a freakin' fortune for may have saved my life but left me utterly alone.”