Losing Me, Finding You (4 page)

“'Scuse me, ma'am,” I say, and I turn my gaze back to Amy who's tilted her head to the side, hair falling in a silken wave over her shoulder. She looks a bit dumbstruck and if I'm honest with myself, so am I.
What the hell you doing down here, Austin Sparks? Shit. If you didn't look like a dumb ass before, you sure do now.
I do my best to come up with a lie on the spot. Sadly, I'm pretty damn good at those. The words fall from my mouth like God's honest truth. “I meant to give Miss Amy here a brochure, just in case she was serious about her offer.” I'm trying to be subtle here, but when I see Amy cringe, I know that I've fucked up royally. I wet my lips and pull out the wrinkled brochure that's stuffed in my back pocket.

Old Lady Gingersnap is slowly reaching for her purse, no doubt getting ready to spritz me in the face, and there's some skinny chick in a wedding gown gazing at me with watery eyes and trembling lips. I snatch a pen from the jar on the counter and scribble down the name of the bar that's across the street from my hotel.

“You can find me here if you still want to buy the bike.” I move towards Amy slowly, trying my best not to spook her family. They're all staring at me like I'm a ghost or some shit, watching me with guarded expressions and twitching fingers. I hate to say it, but these ladies need to get out more. If they think I'm scary, they should meet Beck; he'd really put their panties in a wad.

Amy takes the brochure from me with a steady hand and finds my eyes with hers, drawing me into that face, those lips, that pale, pretty skin.
Shit, damn, and fuck, this girl has got me hooked hard.
I let my fingers graze hers and can't help the smile that crawls across my mouth when she shivers.

“Bike?” the Mama is asking in a high, shrill voice that tells me I've really worn out my welcome. I tip my imaginary hat again, toss Amy a wink and hightail it out of there before I get the cops or the clergy called on my ass.

Mireya doesn't look happy.

“What the fuck was that about?” she asks, swinging her dark hair over one shoulder and pinching her red, red lips so tight that the skin on her face puckers. I shrug my shoulders since I really don't know the answer to that question.

“We never discussed where to meet.”

“That's not what I meant.”

I pause at the edge of the sidewalk and glance up at the sun.
Shit, it's hot down here.

“I know.”

Mireya and I keep walking, but she quickly outpaces me and disappears into the cool darkness of the hotel lobby with no indication that she wants me to follow her this time. I haven't even had a drink with the girl yet and already, Mireya Sawyer is not a fan of Amy Cross. I rub my hand along the stubble on my jaw and wonder if I should shave.

“Hey asshole,” Gaine says from behind me. I don't turn around to look at him, instead keeping my gaze on the growing crowd and the lines of blistering metal that hold my heart in a tighter bind than any girl ever could. There are a lot of MCs here, colors flying, scoping out one another's bikes, along with a whole horde of rubberneckers and gawkers trying to figure out what we're all about. The folks in the leather know how to keep their distance, but the rest of the people, the ones in khaki and sweaters that don't make a lick of damn sense in the hot sun, those are the ones that keep touching and poking their hands where they don't belong. “I saw you go into that dress place down the block. You and Mireya have something goin' on you want to tell me about?”

“Yeah, right,” I laugh as Gaine steps up beside me and tucks his hands in his pockets. “Can you imagine Mireya in a white dress with a bunch of flowers in her hair?”

“Only in the same breath that I imagine the world collapsing in on itself,” he says, and he isn't kidding, just stating fact. Mireya is more at home in a leather jacket with her hair whipping in the wind and a custom chopper tucked between her sweet thighs than she'd ever be as somebody's
wife.
Even the thought makes me chuckle.

“Fucking Christ,” I say as I peel my sweaty shirt away from my chest and wonder if all the time I've been spending up North is screwing with my natural resistance to the heat. I used to live for weather like this. I glance over at Gaine and am happy to see that he looks at least as hot as I do, sweat dripping between his thick brows and down the pinched bridge of his nose. He runs a hand through his dark hair, adjusts his leather vest like he can't wait to take the damn thing off.

“What were you doing then?” he asks me as we both lean against the brick walls of the hotel and Gaine puts a cigarette into his mouth. He offers me one, but I turn it down. “You got a sex change operation coming up that I should know about?” I snort, but I don't answer him right away. I could just tell him I was chasing after a girl. That, Gaine could understand, but oddly enough, that's not exactly how I feel. I don't just
want
to know more about that girl, I need to. I want to take her to bed and make her mine and then the next morning, I want to do it all over again. Usually, I like to just get up and go.

“Just trying to sort out a thought,” I say, and it's Gaine's turn to snort at me.

“In a dress store?”

“Bridal shop.”

“What the fuck ever. How do you even know that?”

I sigh and reach out my hand for a cigarette. Gaine hands it to me along with his lighter. My mother used to own a bridal shop, but I don't tell him that. He probably wouldn't give a shit anyhow.

“I was looking for a girl.”

“Seems like a strange place to do it,” he scoffs, shaking his head and tossing his cigarette butt to the sidewalk. “Ain't a bridal shop for girls that are already
attached
?” Gaine pauses like he's just thought of something, crinkling up his forehead and squinting his brown eyes. “Hey, maybe you're onto something there. If they're already getting hitched, then no attachments, no worries, right?”

“Don't be a fucking asshole,” I tell him as I suck in a slow drag of smoke and sweaty Southern air. Gaine likes to act like a tough motherfucker, but in truth, I don't think I've ever seen him take a girl up to his room or anywhere else for that matter. Sometimes I see him gazing off into the distance like he's waiting for someone, but I never ask about it. Some stuff is best just left well enough alone. “I asked her for drinks earlier but didn't specify the place.”

“Huh.” That's all Gaine says and then the both of us just stand there, wrapped up in our own screwed up thoughts.

The long, hot afternoon stretches out before me as I squint my eyes and listen to the sound of cicadas in the distance, cigarette smoke trailing in lazy curls around my fingers. I coulda stayed there all damn day if Melissa fucking Diamond hadn't appeared from out of friggin' nowhere and reminded me of who I am and what I've gotta do.

“Sparks, we're ready for you,” she says, tilting her head to the side and flicking her eyes up and down Gaine like she'd sure like to see him naked and willing. Gaine glances away and pretends he doesn't notice. After all, it's best not to mess with the Pres' wife, not if you don't want your face smashed in with an iron.

I take another drag of my cigarette, flick it to the cement and sniff.

“Alright, Diamond,” I say, giving the blond bombshell my meanest look. “But this time, try not to fuck things up.”

The bridal shop is silent.

No, it's worse than silent. In this room, there is the very absence of sound, the distinct impression that speech or noise is no longer a possibility. My family is too busy gawking at me and thinking all sorts of horrible things to remember how to form words with their quivering lips.

“Mom,” I begin, and she cringes, the bubble of quiet broken jarringly as the bells on the front door jingle and Mrs. Hall, the bridal shop's owner, steps in. She wipes her feet on the dirty welcome mat with a scowl and shakes her head like she just cannot believe the audacity of those
fucking Yanks.
I wish I could tell her that I cannot believe the audacity of someone who leaves their own shop in the middle of the day whilst they have customers and runs over to the bakery for a dozen doughnuts. Not to sound rude or anything, but she most certainly does not need them.

“Stop it, Amy,” my mother says as she tries to smile at Mrs. Hall. Ever the procurator for peace and normalcy, she doesn't let on that anything has happened and picks a piece of lint off the top of my dress. Behind her eyes, a storm brews and I know immediately that she's going to be telling my father all sorts of stories when we get home. “Mrs. Hall?” my mother inquires as the shop owner settles herself behind the front counter with a maple bar and a plastic, orange cup filled with instant coffee. The woman blots the edges of her mouth with a napkin and looks up like she's just realized we're there.

“Hmm?”

My mother's lips purse almost imperceptibly and then her fake smile blossoms like a flower in spring.

“We'll take this dress, please, but we're going to need the waist taken in about an inch.” Mama pinches the fabric above my hips just a little too hard and grabs some of my skin in the process, making me wince. Jodie scowls at me and spins away muttering horrible things under her breath. I distinctly hear the word
slut.
My cousin just can't handle it when she's not the center of attention. My aunt tsk-tsks and steps over to the rack to continue scanning for dresses for the poor, fat, pregnant Jodie Stipe.

Nobody mentions Austin.

I drop the brochure to the floor and slide it surreptitiously underneath one of the plastic chairs with my foot. I'll pick it up later, on my way out. For now, I've resigned myself to the rough ministrations of Mrs. Hall and my mother as they poke and spin me, prod me with needles, and start to spread town gossip. Soon after, Jodie begins to whine again and everything goes back to normal.

At least outwardly.

Inside, my blood is flushed with endorphins and my heart won't stop pounding out a harsh, staccato rhythm. The small spot on my hand where Austin's fingers grazed mine tingles terribly and I touch it to my lips as the satin fabric at my feet is rolled up and pinned. As soon as my mouth meets skin, I shiver, imagining Austin's hot breath on me and how his kisses might feel if they pressed against my knuckles in greeting. I read a lot of books, so I imagine it might go something like this.

“
So glad you could make it here tonight, Miss Amy,” Austin says as he reaches out and takes my hand in his, smoothing his warm mouth against my skin with a light kiss. “I was hoping you'd show.” Austin smiles at me with his bright white teeth and hooks his elbow through mine. “Can I offer you a drink?”

I pause as my mother lifts my hair up roughly and asks my aunt how she wants it done for the wedding. I adjust my vision a bit, trying to match the fire in Austin's eyes to my imaginary version of him. Actually, I think it might work a bit more like this.

Austin sets his beer down on the rough wood of the counter and turns towards me.

“Hot damn. If it isn't little Amy Cross.” He smirks and the edge of his lip where it's scarred, pulls at his face with the expression. “Your Mama let you out of your cage for the night?”

I stare at Austin and suddenly feel stifled in my stupid cardigan, wishing he'd tear it from my shoulders and bruise my neck with rough kisses and grazing teeth. I clutch my purse tightly in my hands to control the flurry of emotions in my belly and glance away, not because I'm demure or embarrassed, but because I like the hard bulge that I can see in Austin's tight jeans and have to stop myself from staring at it.

He moves across the room fast, too fast, so fast I don't see him until he's slamming me against the wall and putting his hand up my skirt.

“Now, Miss Amy, let's see if you're as ready for me as I am for you.” I groan and –

“Amy!” my mom snaps, like maybe this is the third or fourth time she's said my name. I blink several times and focus on her brown eyes, the ones that are so much darker and prettier than mine. Despite her German heritage, Mama looks exotic somehow, like maybe one of her ancestors wasn't being entirely honest about the parentage of her child. Unfortunately, I inherited none of that. My eyes are plain, a blue so dull they're nearly gray; the perfect match to my hair which complements the unstained wood trim that lines the walls of the shop. “Go change.”

I don't question the order, don't tell her that I am twenty-one
fucking
years old and can make my own decisions about how and when and what I do.

Jodie and Aunt Megan watch me with narrowed eyes as I retreat behind the curtains and slump to the bench, snatching my book up like it's a fine drink, something to soothe my nerves and make me forget my troubles.

“
Adam?” I whisper, but he's nowhere to be found.

He's left me.

Adam has left me.

My heart cries out while my body screams, certain that I'll die without his strong, hard arms wrapped around me. What will I do without those dark eyes and that sexy smile?

I slam the covers closed and throw the book against the wall where it bounces back at me and hits me in the arm. My mother peeks her head in immediately to check on the commotion, and I can hardly stifle the urge to scream. Just a few hours ago, I was resigned to my fate. Now, all of a sudden, I can't wait to feel that sense of pain and anguish and longing that it's in my book. Maybe the energy of the motorcycle show is threading its way into my veins. After all these years living just a few blocks away, something was bound to rub off, wasn't it?