Finding Willow (Hers) (13 page)

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I lie. I shouldn't lie to him and I feel bad. I am lying to myself, too, because I’m trying to insist that, whatever those hook ups were, it wasn't anything worth writing home about. I'm a bad liar. I really am.

“If you want to talk about it, I’m here. I gotta head home for the night, but if you want, here’s my number.” He scribbles some numbers down on a scrap piece of paper on my nightstand and heads for the door. Before he walks out, he turns to me, saying a few simple words that completely fuck my head all up.

“He isn't the bad guy he
tries
to be. He's been through a lot in the past couple years. I'm sorry he hurt you.”

Like that, he’s gone, and I’m alone with my thoughts. He isn't a bad guy? He has been through a lot? The bad guy he tries to be? I don't know what River is trying to get at, but I just can't put much more thought into it. Because my sanity is slowly slipping and, for once in my life, it is the result of a fucking man I actually want to give a shit about. I wish I knew why. Maybe it’s because he appears just as broken as I am? Maybe I want to fix him? Maybe I just want to hide from my own fucked up life once again. This whole life makeover really isn't going as I had planned, that is for sure.

I don't get undressed. I just lie down on my bed and close my eyes. Eventually my mind quits and I drift off until a fucking rude, loud banging rips me from my peaceful slumber sometime around midnight.

“Fuck off!” I scream from my bed. “Wrong room!” The banging continues. It sounds like whoever is out there is about to come through the fucking door.

“Star, open the fucking door.” Chrome’s voice instantly shakes off the fuzzy just woken feeling coursing through my body, and sends me into high alert.

“Go away!” I scream as loud as I possibly can.. I punch the pillow before hurling it across the room at the door. The banging stops, and the quiet returns to the peaceful fall night. That is when I hear a key inside the lock and my motel room door swings open.

“Are you fucking out of your mind?” I yell at him. He stands in the doorway unfazed. He has a black eye, and the smell of alcohol reaches across the room.

“We need to talk,” he slurs, staggering a couple steps in the direction of my bed. He’s going to fall, and all I can think about is him riding his motorcycle completely shitfaced. There is no fucking way he wouldn't kill himself like that.

“We don't need to talk. You need to go.” I point toward the door, which is still wide open.

“I didn't mean for you to see that.” Of course he didn't. No one ever means to get caught in a compromising position. I never meant for Seven to see me fucking her brother. But it happened, and I know what it feels like.

“Of course you didn't want me to see that. But I did. I don't know what your game is, but I want you gone.”

I stand up, and creep out of bed, heading for the door. I turn in his direction, just as he collapses against my bed. Fuck. My. Life. I have the worst fucking luck.

I close the door and take a few steps in his direction. Is he awake? Did he pass out?

“Chrome, you need to go.”

He ignores me and starts on a drunken tirade of complete nonsense.

“I didn't want to like you. But I do. I don't like women. I use them. Since
her
.” His hands cover his eyes as I switch on the light. But he doesn't stop talking. “She left me. She left me with a brand new baby. I didn't know what the fuck to do. So, I gave it to my parents. I gave my kid away like it was a pair of sunglasses or a cookie.”

I cut him off because I don't want to hear this. I don't want to know more about him. I don't want a deeper connection. I don't need him using me as his own fucking personal therapist. I have too much of my own shit to deal with.

“I don't want to hear it. I can't do this. Please. If you care about me at all, get up and leave.”

He stops rambling, moves the hand shielding his eyes, and starts speaking again. Never breaking eye contact.

“I care. I don't want to. I do. I care. I can't leave you tonight. I can't let you push me away.” It’s only half coherent. He isn't making much sense. If I wasn't so pissed off and emotionally fucked in the brain, I might be laughing at him.

Then, the worst fucking thing possible happens. The drunk bastard passes out on my bed. Out cold. All six fucking foot five inches is dead weight on the only place I have to sleep. I can't help it. I start to laugh. Hysterically.

I left New York City to get away from nonsense and drugs. While I may not be blowing lines of coke left and right, or even fucking drinking, the nonsense seems to fucking follow me wherever I go. I am like a bullshit magnet. I guess it's just karma biting me in the ass.

I yawn and realize there’s no way I am getting around sharing a bed with this guy. I’m paying for this fucking room, and I am sure as fuck sleeping. Not only that, but I have a date with his daughter in the morning. What have I gotten myself into?

I curl up along the top of the headboard, trying my best to keep my distance from the drunk at the foot of the bed. I lie there for hours, trying to sleep. I nod off on occasion, but never truly get any sleep. The daylight eventually tries to peek through the fabric curtains I pulled tightly shut. I made it through the night.

I slide off the bed and head to the bathroom. A tall glass sits next to the sink and I fill it with ice cold water. I am on a mission.

I'm a bitch. I can't help it but I am annoyed, still, hours later.

I take the glass of water and pour it all over Chrome's head. Drenching him, the bed, and the carpet in the process. I try not to laugh as he snaps awake, scrambling around and trying to take in his surroundings. He has no idea where he is.

“Time to wake up, sleeping ugly. Your daughter is going to be here in a little bit for our painting date, and I want you gone.”

He looks around the room and tries to focus his eyes on me, but I can tell he is in bad shape. I've been there, so I completely know the feeling. But this time around, I can't sympathize or feel bad for him. I want him to hurt.

“Star, I came here to talk. I think we should talk before I go. Especially if you are going to be spending time with Scarlett.”

Well played, asshole. Use the girl as an excuse. I can't say no now. I can't not hear him out, because I can't back out on the painting date I made with her. That would just be an asshole move on my part.

“Speak.” That is all I can say. I have nothing left. I don't want to have this long, drawn out heart-to-heart. I want him to speak his peace and be on his way.

“I was really young. She was even younger. I had just turned twenty-four, and she was seventeen. Looking back, I think I could say I loved her. But I honestly didn't know love until a few years ago. She was attracted to the dangerous biker life, but it was no place for a woman or a baby. I was foolish and let her hang around the club.” He lets out a deep sigh and shakes his head.

“We were together, but she was a club whore. She fucked anyone who wanted it. I knew, but I didn't care. I wasn't thinking about getting married or having a future. I just wanted to live fast and have some fun. Then came Scarlett. I didn't think she was mine, and I kicked Michelle to the curb. But when Scarlett was born, it was clear as day she was my daughter. From the day she was born, she looked just like me. I was a dick, and I made Michelle chase me around with a paternity order, which only confirmed what I already knew.” His face is full of pain. I feel bad to an extent. I may put on this bitch facade sometimes, but I hate to see anyone else hurting. Fuckin' funny, huh?

“Michelle dropped Scarlett off with me and my parents for my Sunday visit. She was three months old. My mother loved her to fucking death. She would sit for hours and play with her. Coo at her and talk that bullshit baby talk. Michelle never came back to get her. We all waited, but she never showed. She had been drunk, driving her mother's car, and crashed into a tree on her way to get Scarlett. Died on impact, leaving me with a brand new baby. I had no fucking clue what to do with her.” He rests his head in his hands. I am not sure if it is from the stress of the memory, or the fact that I am pretty damn sure his head is fucking pounding with a raging headache.

“I gave her to my parents. I didn't know what else to do. They raised her as their own. Mom always wanted a little girl, after having three sons. But then they died. Scarlett and River came to live with me, because they were both still minors. That’s when shit changed. River still thinks of Scarlett as his sister, but we had to tell her the truth. I tried to become the best father I could be, with the circumstances of my life. Being on the road, being involved in the shit I am. When I am home, she is my world.”

What do you say to something like that? How do I reply to him? Do I spill my past? Do I let him know what I am doing in Woodstock? I just can't.

“I know I am a dick, Star. I know I am a fucking piece of shit for what I did last night. I’m not going to make any excuses. I am reckless. I am a fucking womanizing piece of shit because that is all I have ever known. After Michelle, I never dated. I just did whatever I wanted. The whole ‘no strings attached’ shit. It is all I have ever known. I know it isn't an excuse and, if I hurt your feelings, I’m sorry. Really.” He stands from the bed, adjusts his pants and shirt, and starts to walk toward the door.

“That chick earlier. I was just trying to get you out of my mind. You have taken over my thoughts. I never thought I would see a day like this.” He is frustrated, pissed, upset. A bundle of emotion and nerves, but I need to sort out everything he just told me.

“Tomorrow night, I leave ‘til Thursday. I’d like to see you again before I go, but I understand if you aren't up for it. I’ll be picking up Scarlett at noon from the art shop.” He opens the door and is gone. Two days in a row, he has walked out of that door and taken a piece of me with him, and I fucking hate that I am so goddamn vulnerable to him. I don't know why or how. I just know that whatever just happened isn't going to just go away.

Scarlett the Artist

“My favorite color is pink. I love all different shades of pink. Light pink, dark pink, my all-time fave is hot pink, though. I love Hello Kitty, too. I wish I could get a cat, but my Daddy won't let me. He doesn't think I am responsible enough yet. He said maybe for my next birthday,” Scarlett rambles on and on as if no one at home ever listens to a word she says.

“I like pink, too, but I think my favorite color of all time is lime green. I like bright colors.”

She sits on the steps of the art store, painting her little heart out. She’s brushed a beautiful sky scene, full of pinks, reds, and oranges, with the tiniest touches of blue. It is beautiful and her talent is crystal clear. I wouldn't mind painting with her more often, because I could pick up some pointers from her. Sad, huh?

“Your dad is going to be here in a couple minutes to pick you up.”

I’m sad to see her go, but I have to drive a half hour north to Jefferson City and follow up on that address Davis sent me. I would’ve gone first thing this morning, but I’m glad I took the time to hang out with Scarlett.

“Do you like my Daddy?”

Well, that came out of left field. They always say kids say the damnedest things. I guess that’s true.

I am not sure if
like
would be the best description for what I feel for her father. Maybe a day ago, but today it is more of a tolerance.

“I guess you could say that.”

She smiles and bounces up and down.

“I think he likes you, too.” She is elated, but I don't want to give her the wrong message.

“Scarlett, you know a lot of people pass through Woodstock. I am not here to stay, honey.”

“Oh,” is all she says. Her eyes search the distance, looking everywhere but at me. I feel bad, really bad. But I don't want to give her any false sense of hope. I won't be staying here; this isn't my home anymore. I’m living out of a motel room, looking for my very own little girl, whom I can only hope will be a lot like Scarlett.

“Starburst Joni Bloom!”

Oh dear God. I know that voice anywhere. The hair on the back of my neck stands straight on end as my mother makes her way up the front stairs of the art store. I didn't want to see her. But I also couldn't hide in my room the whole time I was in town.

“Mother.” I nod as Scarlett starts to clean up her paint mess.

“I didn't think I would see you here in Woodstock again. What brings you home?”

She isn't being nice; she’s prying for information. She is nervous, and I am sure she is hiding something. My parents are always hiding something.

“Needed to get out of the city for a little bit. I will see you on Friday.”

I turn to start packing up. I hear the door to the art store open and, when I turn around, my mom is gone. Scarlett ignores the entire exchange. I guess by the time you’re her age, you know when to not include yourself in the middle of adult shit. I’m thankful for that because I am not good at explaining adult shit in kid appropriate terms.

The roar of a motorcycle disrupts the peace of Main Street as Chrome comes barreling down the road, stopping in front of the art shop. I knew I would have to see him again today; I just sent up a dozen silent prayers that Chrome would change his mind and River would pick Scarlett up this afternoon.