The Heartbreak Messenger (18 page)

“Not right now. Maybe later.”

“Before or after you grovel at Abby's feet and beg like a dog to be forgiven for being a humongous moron?”

I turned slowly toward him. “How did you know?”

He shrugged. “I'm a man who's in the know. I got connections.”

“Did you talk to Abby today?”

“Nope.”

“Then how do you know what happened?”

“I talked to Abby last night.”

“Oh. Where did you find her?”

Rob forced open his chocolate milk. “I didn't find her. She knocked on my door during dinner.”

“Crying?”

“Her eyes were watery and her nose was red, but it might have been allergies or something.”

“What did she say?”

“Oh, I think you know what she said. She told me everything. She also said she came to me because I was her best friend, and her
other
best friend didn't have much comfort to offer at the moment.”

I smiled weakly, in spite of it all. “I guess that's one advantage to having two best friends.”

Rob nodded. “So I invited her in for dinner with the family, and then she and I ate Holey Doughs together.”

“She likes those better than chocolates anyway.” I glanced over at Rob. “I'm glad you were there for her. I wasn't.”

“Darn straight.” Rob paused for a second, then opened his brown lunch sack and pulled out something wrapped in a paper towel. “Here, this is for you.”

I unfolded it and found a Maple Fudge Holey Dough, half-smashed, but otherwise perfectly intact and gooey. “Oh, buddy. You're too awesome for words.”

“I know.”

I bit into the doughnut and let the sugary, fatty goodness melt in my mouth. I licked the frosting from my lips.

“You're a good friend, Rob. I'm sorry if I haven't always been one. Especially since, well, you know, since becoming the Heartbreak Messenger.”

“Apology accepted,” Rob said, pulling out his ham and cheese. “But feel free to tell me again how awesome I am.”

I laughed around another bite of doughnut. “Seriously. You're awesome.”

“Thank you.”

I sat there next to him, thinking about my successes and my failures, my business and my life. I wondered if the next apology I needed to deliver would go as smoothly. “Do you think Abby will ever speak to me again?”

“Well, I'm not a gambling man, but if I was, I'd probably put some money on it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because she was the one that saved you the Holey Dough.” Rob looked over at me and smiled big. “If it was up to me, I'd have eaten it myself.”

 

Chapter 28

I left our apartment early the next morning, wanting to be at the front door of Pretty Bouquets right when they opened at ten o'clock. There were hearts to fix and a friendship to patch and a schedule to keep. There was also still some thinking to do.

I rode my bike along a meandering road on the far west side of town. A dusty cloud trailed in my wake. I swerved in and out, making patterns in the dirt. I passed the Bus Barn, where the yellow school buses were lined up in a neat row, resting for the weekend. Up ahead, warehouses and self-storage complexes sat back in the trees on the left, while a small stream ran through a gully on the right. Eventually the road would go past the backside of Lincoln Hill Park and let out near the flower shop. The long route gave me time to think.

I'd rehearsed about twenty different speeches for Abby in front of the bathroom mirror, but none of them seemed right. Apologies are never easy, I guess. And apparently the bigger the bonehead you've been, the more they hurt coming up. Mom had told me to say what was in my heart. There was plenty in there—assuming I could get it all out.

To be completely honest, the biggest problem was trying to figure out my own feelings. Everything just seemed so complicated.

Abby. Me. Justin. Friend. Buddy. Best friend. Girlfriend. A few weeks ago, I'd thought I knew what all of those words meant. Then somehow everything had become muddled and twisted and blurred. Part of me wished that things could get back to normal, uncomplicated. But at the same time, I wasn't so sure that's what I wanted at all.

Maybe it wasn't that I needed a Rosetta Stone for girls. Maybe I needed one to figure out myself.

Engine noise rumbled into my thoughts.

At first I figured it was one of the school buses out for a weekend spin. But it was the wrong kind of rumble. It was smaller, vaguely familiar—and it pushed needles of fear into my skin.

Ten yards ahead, a motorcycle pulled out from one of the side roads that led back into the complex of warehouses. The rider wore a white T-shirt and a black leather jacket. He looked up the road, ready to make a left turn in the direction I was headed. Then he glanced my way.

Gunner peered over the top of his sunglasses and smiled.

My life flashed before my eyes. It was boring and short and about to end way too early. But the thought that rose above all others was,
Why today?

I glanced around, but there was nowhere my bike could go where the motorcycle couldn't follow. I slammed on my brakes.

Gunner's motorcycle shot toward me with a roar. Within seconds his front tire bumped up against mine and his headlight filled my vision.

I took a deep breath. Perhaps he just wanted to talk. Maybe he didn't know about the black book betrayal with his ex-girlfriends.

He let his bike idle to a monotonous growl. “Hey, Sly,” he said with a smile. “I was just heading out to see what pain I could cause. Nice of you to stop by.”

Hmmm. He probably knows.
“Hey, Gunner. Um, I gotta go. Someone's waiting for me.”

Gunner flicked his handlebar and the Beast lurched forward, giving my bike a violent nudge. I scooted back, my toes on the ground to keep my balance. Gunner kept rolling slowly forward as I tried to increase the gap between our tires.

“You know,” he said over the noise of the Kawasaki, “my life has really sucked lately. It took some time, Sly, but I finally figured out what to blame it on.”

I glanced behind me. “Rotten luck?”

“Nope. Some kid I hired to do a simple job. Turns out he had a death wish.”

I tightened my grip on the handlebars and tried to keep my voice steady. “Listen, Gunner, I … I did what you asked. I broke up with the girls and didn't tell them about each other.” There was now several feet between our tires.

Gunner's smile turned into a sneer. “Nice try, Sly. But I want my money back. And I'll take it, right after I beat the…”

I slammed my pedals forward with everything I had. I swerved hard, scraping past the Beast and ducking as Gunner's hand shot out to grab me. I heard him curse and then the engine roared to life like a war machine.

My mind raced. I couldn't outpace Gunner when he was sitting on 120 horsepower. There was no chance of a cop car passing by out here. And natural disasters never strike when and where you need them. My only hope was to hold out until I reached some public place where Gunner couldn't beat me to death without witnesses.

The air vibrated as the motorcycle pulled up alongside me. Gunner smiled his jungle cat grin as his hair danced around his face. He pushed his sunglasses up on his nose and then swerved toward me in one smooth motion.

I frantically pulled my handlebars to the right and then yanked back, inches away from slipping into the gully on the side of the road.

Gunner laughed. He was like a cat playing with the mouse before devouring it whole. He edged his motorcycle closer as I pedaled on the stony lip of the gully. I glanced down to see a thin line of water trickling at the bottom. The gully was less than two yards across, but it was shoulder-deep with steep walls. If I fell, I probably wouldn't break anything, but the only escape would be through Gunner's fists.

Something smacked the backside of my head. I looked over in time to see Gunner reach over and slap my head again.

“What's the matter, Sly?” he shouted. “I thought the Heartbreaker wanted to play tough with Gunner. Well, you ain't seen nothing yet.”

Twenty yards ahead the road pulled to the left. My heart sank. I knew what Gunner was going to do. He would crowd me out as we came around that curve, and I'd go crashing into the gully.

My body urged me to hit the brakes, to turn around and try to find help in the warehouses half a mile back. But it was Saturday—no one would be there.

We were almost at the curve. Gunner saw my wide eyes, my look of panic. He laughed.

I was ready to slam on the brakes when I saw a large round stone in my path just where the gully wall plunged downward and the curve in the road pulled to the left. Knowing that broken limbs were probably a sure thing at that point, I poured on the last bit of speed my legs could give me.

My front tire hit the smooth side of the stone, which was slanted just enough to give me the lift I needed. I flew into the air over the gully. I had the speed. I had the height. I had the momentum. I felt like throwing my arms into the air and shouting, “Free at last!”

I'd taken enough bike jumps to know how to position my legs, grip the handlebars, and keep everything steady on impact. Not that I was ever very good at it. As my rear tire crashed into the ground on the other side of the gully, my angle was all wrong. The bike slipped out from under me and sent me tumbling into the trees.

I scrambled to my feet, feeling every scrape and bruise along my body. Nothing seemed to be broken, which almost made me smile. Down the dirt road, Gunner was turning around as quickly as he could. I grabbed the handlebars of my bike, but saw that the back rim looked like a wavy letter
D
with whiskers made out of spokes.

Gunner wasn't likely to risk his motorcycle trying that jump, but I wasn't going to wait to find out. Legs still wobbling, I pushed my bike through the trees.

The ground gradually sloped upward. My calves burned with each step. I caught a branch underfoot and slid back a few yards. I kinda knew where I was, but really had no idea where the trees would end and civilization begin. I stopped for a moment to catch my breath, hands on knees.

I have to hurry. I have to keep going.
I couldn't let Abby down again.

And then I heard that familiar rumble, faint but distinct. The Beast was on the move.

I couldn't tell which direction the sound came from—in front or behind. I ran, pushing my wounded bike through the sycamores and poplars. Moments later I burst through the edge of the trees and landed on an expanse of trimmed green grass.

I was in Lincoln Hill Park. In the distance I saw the path up to the top of the hill, and then the parking lot beyond where I'd first met Gunner. I briefly wondered if Gunner appreciated the irony of that as I turned and saw him bearing down on me across the green grass. I dropped my bike and ran for it. I headed toward the neighborhoods beyond the park, where the masses of civilized people were picking up their morning papers.

But Gunner was in control again. He curved around and cut me off. I turned and he cut me off again. I rounded the corner of a brick maintenance shed, hoping it would at least separate me from Gunner's view. But the edge of the shed was met by a chain-link fence, creating the perfect corner for catching a mouse.

Gunner parked his motorcycle in front of me and slid off with a swagger.

My legs were Jell-O and my lungs were burning. Trapped between wall and fence, I knew if I ran I wouldn't make it ten feet before he tackled me. I stood as straight as I could and stared at my pitiful reflection in his sunglasses.

He pulled off his black leather jacket and draped it across the seat of the Beast. He slid the shades from his face to reveal steely eyes that focused on me like machine gun sights. He stretched his arms back and rolled his head around, like he was getting ready to box at the gym. “All right, Sly. Time to do business.”

I prepared myself for death or unconsciousness, whichever came first. But as I closed my eyes, Abby's face was the only thing that came to mind.

Gunner took a step forward and raised his fist.

“Gunner!”

My eyes popped open and Gunner spun around. Past him, down the park path and over the grass, I saw ten hulking forms in gray shorts and crimson T-shirts bounding toward us in single file. Duke Ripling trotted at the front of the line.

“Gunner!” Duke shouted again. As they approached, Duke called out a command and pointed his fingers to the sides. The John P. Westmore defensive line split in two and formed a half circle around me and Gunner before coming to a stop.

Duke stepped up to Gunner.

“What do you want, Ripling?” Gunner's shoulders were back and his head up, but he was still six inches shorter than Duke.

“What you doing with my little man here?” Duke asked.

“Nothing I need you around for.”

Duke squared his shoulders. “Maybe you oughta pick on someone your own size.”

I couldn't believe my luck. I restrained myself from launching into some sort of
Go team!
cheerleader chant.

“Oh, you're a real hero, aren't you?” Gunner said the words with bravado, but his eyes jumped for a split second to the football players surrounding us. He glanced back toward his jacket and I remembered the knife.

A step forward put Duke inches from Gunner's face. “I don't think you understand. The little messenger man is with me. Anything happens to him, I'm going to take it personal, and I'll probably get just a little angry. You do know why they call me Duke the Ripper, don't you?”

I'd wondered that myself and wished he would go into detail for Gunner's sake.

Gunner sidled toward his bike, throwing on his jacket as he tossed a leg over the Beast. “Shove a jockstrap in it, Ripling.”

Duke lunged forward and Gunner jumped, trying to push his motorcycle along while hitting the ignition. It finally turned and the defensive line let him pass with a few taunts and insults. Gunner revved the engine and took off across the grass.