Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
I don’t touch the keys. I don’t touch the crumpled letter still balled in the wastebasket beside me. I sip water, answer phones, paste on polite smiles, but inside I’m pacing even when my body is still.
When the low rumble of a motorcycle threads through the spa’s soft flute music, I swear my bones feel it first. My whole body exhales.
Kellum.
I step outside before he even parks. The sun is bright, bouncing off chrome and leather, and he looks like something the day conjured just to remind me I’m not alone. He swings his leg over after he sets the kickstand, and pulls his helmet off in one smooth motion. His eyes land on me immediately, sharp gray, reading me faster than I can explain.
“Show me,” he gestures while looking at the car because he knows what it looks like. While the beach area is full of people with money, this part of North Carolina is very blended with the elite and the middle class. The likelihood of another Porshe in the parking lot is not high but it’s not something that couldn’t happen.
Wordless, I point at the car. The Porsche gleams like it’s been detailed, polished within an inch of its life, like Brian wanted me to see it and remember what I lost.
Kellum’s mouth goes flat. He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t touch the car. He looks back at me instead. “You okay?”
“I’m furious.” My voice shakes, but it’s not weak—it’s tight with anger. “He thinks he can call me trash and then pretend he’s generous for giving this back? Like it’s some prize I should thank him for? I don’t want the damn car! I want nothing from him.”
Kellum nods once, slow. He doesn’t feed the fire with his words; he lets me burn clean.
I cross my arms, pacing the sidewalk. “I don’t want it. I don’t want anything from him. I don’t want his keys, his car, his forgiveness. He can keep it all.”
That gets the ghost of a smile out of Kellum, not because he finds it funny, but because I think he likes hearing me say it.
The sound of another engine rolls in then a truck this time pulls up. Big, grumbling, familiar. My head snaps toward it just as a flatbed tow pulls into the lot. The driver leans out the window, gives Kellum a two-finger salute.
Behind him the tow truck that introduced us rolls up to the Porshe and I want to laugh at this full circle moment.
“What—what’s happening?” I ask, heart climbing into my throat.
Kellum’s eyes stay on me, not the car. “We’re returning it to the owner.”
The tow truck driver hops down, starts hooking up the Porsche like it’s just another job on a Tuesday, because to him, it is.
I blink, stunned. Then I laugh. “You’re gonna tow it?”
“I made a call before I left,” Kellum says, calm as ever. “Jasper helped me when Brian called us to snag it that first day. He’s happy to help return the car to it’s owner yet again. Figured you’d already told me what you wanted when you said you don’t want anything from him. So, the car goes back. Not yours. Not ours. His. Let him pay for the tow storage. Pami will do the paperwork, contact him. This doesn’t fall on you. He parked in a short term parking spot.” Kellum points to the sign, “it says all violators will be towed by us at their expense.”
The anger that’s been boiling inside me twists, changes shape. It’s still fire, but now it’s clean, burning through shame and leaving something else in its place: relief.
“He’s going to hate that,” I whisper, a little breathless.
“Good.” Kellum finally steps closer, brushing his knuckles against mine, a touch so small and steady it feels like a vow. “Come on. You need to clear your head. Your lunch break is now. Let’s ride.”
I look back once more as Jasper ratchets down the Porsche, its glossy shite paint flashing in the sun. Brian thought he was dangling a collar with a leash. Kellum cut it before it could ever tighten around my throat.
I let out a shaky laugh, half fury, half freedom. “Yeah,” I say, looking at the only man in the lot who feels solid. “Yeah, I need to ride.” Running inside, I clock out, letting them know I’m taking my break, and grab my bag with a quick wave to Trina.
He hands me the helmet. I take it without hesitation this time, slipping it on and tightening the strap. My legs still tremble when I climb on behind him, but not from fear. From adrenaline. From the sheer weight of telling the past it can’t own me anymore.
As the bike roars to life and we pull away, I glance over my shoulder just once. The Porsche is already half up the ramp, chained and powerless. A perfect metaphor, I think, for Brian’s grip on me now—going, gone, it’s behind me.