Page 41 of Detour

My stomach drops out onto the floor, leaving behind an empty shell.

“Hey, Joe, I’m heading out for the night. Do you need me to-”

My head snaps over to the man coming around the corner from detailing. Before I can utter a single word, I’m released harshly, Joe’s booming voice masking any sound I might make.

“That’s it for now, buddy.” He steps forward, blocking my savior from view. “I’ll lock up. Have a good night.”

I take that as my cue to leave as well and with my bag in hand, I rush out the front door. It’s fully dark as I speed walk around the outside of the building.

I’m shaking so bad when I jump in, I don’t get my key in the ignition until my third try. Water collects in my eyes but I look up, blinking it back. That asshole doesn’t deserve my tears. Checking in the rearview mirror to see the lights from inside, I turn the radio on full blast to silence the thoughts racing through my mind, and peel out of the lot listening to “Middle Finger” by Bohnes.

I don’t stop though. I drive until my hands are steady on the steering wheel. I drive until my ears are too full of roaring lyrics to hear my own heartbeat. I drive until I can see through the tears that keep threatening to spill out. I drive until I’m at the gas station the boys took me to on our ride together. I didn’t even know where I was driving but somehow I ended up here. Somewhere familiar. Somewhere that reminds me of them. Of him.

Parking, I lay my head against the wheel and take a few minutes to collect myself. Joe’s rough touch was so jarring after Coty’s attentive caresses. Where my body welcomed Coty’s touch before my mind could even catch up, my body all out rejected Joe’s without needing my brain at all.

As soon as my feet hit the ground, my stomach heaves and I grip the side of my Jeep as I double over, letting my body do what it needs to. My stomach deprived of food pays off for once and nothing comes out.

“Angela?”

Please no.

A swipe of my mouth, I straighten to find Coty staring directly at me. Helmet off, it’s resting on his lap as he straddles his black bike. Worry lines every inch of his face. What the hell is he doing here?

“Yeah?” I ask, irritation clear. I’m over men today, especially the handsy ones.

He’s full on scowling but I don’t give a shit. I’m drowning over here, trying to keep my head above the tainted water that is my life. I can’t worry about his feelings when I’m busy keeping my own at bay.

“Are you okay? I saw you pull in and it looked like-”

“Totally fine, Coty.” I cut him off before I’m forced to hear what I look like. I don’t need to face what’s undoubtedly seeping out of me. Not now. Not in front of him.

He shakes his head, dismounting. I put my hands in the pockets of my shorts—that I fully intend on burning once I’m home, anything to rid myself of Joe’s touch—and hold my ground.

Coty comes around the front of my car, propping himself against the top of the tire well. The knees on his jeans are ripped clean out with his motorcycle jacket zipped up to his chin. He crosses his boots and looks over at me, taking in too much as usual. I’m not cowering under his gaze though. Let him see. Let him see that he’s not getting in.

Matter-of-factly, he says, “I’m starving.”

I can’t keep the surprise off my face.

“I’ve been out riding and it’s late. At least keep me company while I eat.” He holds out his hand, looking at me with more hope than I deserve.

I reach in to grab my wallet then step past him and his open hand. Relief floods when he lets me pass without so much as a touch.

We go our separate ways once inside, picking out what we each want to eat, then meet at the cash register. I make sure to pay first and grab a table while he pays for his food. I don’t have much of an appetite but I want to try to get something down. The acid churning in my stomach needs something to soak it up.

We eat in comfortable silence while I occasionally sneak glances at his choice in food.

“What?”

“Nothing.” I half-smile. “I didn’t know you liked corn dogs.” Then because I can’t help it, I say, “Are you twelve?”

I release a laugh I didn’t think I was capable of right now.

His eyebrows shoot up at my mood change but he doesn’t comment.

“What about you? Since when do oatmeal cookies count as a meal?” He tosses his balled-up napkin at me.

I swat it away, answering truthfully, “Since that’s the only thing in the house. If you’re lucky.”