Page 36 of Never Let Me Go

She stares at the door of the restaurant for a moment before grabbing my hand and climbing in the bed of the truck. As soon as she’s situated, I climb up behind her and start passing out our food.

“So,” she prompts as she unwraps her sandwich. “What do you do when you’re not out saving women?”

“I work at the club’s bike shop.”

“And that’s your dream job?” she asks before taking a bite of her sandwich and I tilt my head from side to side.

“Kind of… I’d really love to build custom bikes and restore old ones.”

She nods. “That’s really cool and it sounds like something you could easily incorporate into the work you already do. Would your president be on board to add another aspect to the business?”

“I think he would be but I haven’t asked.”

“Why not?” she asks and I sigh as I grab a chip, popping it into my mouth as I look up at the interstate.

“I don’t know… not good timing, I guess.”

“That’s bullshit,” she proclaims. I whip my head toward her and narrow my eyes as she covers her hand with her mouth. “I’m sorry. That probably sounded really bitchy but in my opinion that’s just something you tell yourself to feel better about the fact that you haven’t gone after what you want.”

I flinch at her honesty as I clench my fists. “What do you do then if you’ve got all the goddamn answers?”

“I run my own company,” she answers, challenging me with her gaze to be rude to her again and I suck in a breath and let it out before running my hand through my hair.

“Shit. I’m sorry.”

She nods. “It’s okay. I’m sorry if I was harsh but I meant what I said.”

“Understood,” I say, nodding in agreement. “What does your company do?”

“I’m a jewelry designer.”

My eyes widen as I look up at her. “Yeah? Anything I would have heard of?”

“You been buying a lot of nice jewelry lately?” she asks, arching a brow before she drops her gaze to her food. I laugh and shake my head.

“Uh… no, not exactly.”

She shrugs. “Probably not, then.”

“That’s cool, though,” I reply as I lean back against the side of the truck bed. “I’d love to see some of your designs.”

Meeting my gaze, the corner of her lip twitches. “Not today.”

“Touché.”

“You know about art?” she asks as she mirrors my pose, leaning back against the side of the truck, and studies me. I shrug.

“A little bit. My mom is an artist.”

“Yeah?” She sits forward, her eyes lighting up. “What does she make?”

“All sorts of things - pottery, jewelry, paintings, sculptures… the list goes on. My dad built her a little shop in their backyard and she’s got it full to the brim with stuff.”

She grins. “That’s so cool. Does she sell her stuff anywhere?”

“Yeah. She’s got a little table at the artists market on the weekends. Does pretty well for herself actually. Not that she cares. She’s a total hippy - all about the joy of creating.”

“She sounds a lot like my mom,” she replies, sadness creeping into her tone and I reach over to grab her hand. She blinks and her gaze meets mine, almost as if she was pulled from her memories by my touch.