Detour: A Creekwood Novel (Creekwood Series Book 1)
Detour: Chapter 31

The treeless plain we reach is already littered with people. Some are dancing to loud music pouring from speakers in trunks while others are showing off different tricks on motorcycles.

The boys park in perfect unison and I realize that, unlike me, this isn’t their first rodeo. I suddenly want this helmet, and everything I’m pretending to be in it, off.

Coty catches my fidgety hands in his and helps untie the straps, keeping my focus the entire time. His coffee eyes help to slow my breathing from the uncertainty knocking its way around my chest. Coty’s confidence quiets my apprehension as clusters of partiers pass, taking notice of the new arrivals.

Girls call out to the guys but Coty’s gaze stays glued to mine, never wavering. His smile widens each time mine tightens, telling me he’s aware of what’s going on. He’s enjoying the hell out of my reaction which only pisses me off further. Well, the girls are the real culprits for my foul mood, but still, he doesn’t have to be so damn happy about it.

As it turns out ‘play’ means doing stunts on motorcycles. I stand off to the side, watching as different guys in helmets alternate between wheelies and what I’m learning are stoppies—a wheelie done on the front tire instead of the back. Coty’s one of the more daring riders, along with Marc and Beckett actually, and they do some complicated looking tricks together in perfect synchronization much to everyone’s delight. It’s all very impressive. And loud. And dirty. Between the smoke and the dust, I can barely make out some of the bikes so I wander around, looking for a cooler, knowing there’s no chance I’ll be the designated driver tonight. The thought alone makes me smile as I reach a tub full of beers. I dig around for a hard cider, then twist the top off with my sleeve when I replace one. My hands are shaking and it has nothing to do with the vibration from the ride out here.

I pass cars low to the ground with spoilers high in the sky. Racing stripes and custom paint jobs adorn imports while meaty exhausts accentuate the American muscle. I cringe, imagining all the dust collecting through the open doors and windows. Occupational hazard.

Different songs spill out of pulsing speakers, causing the cars to vibrate with an energy all their own. Motorcycles rev long and loud, fighting to be heard over the lyrics being belted from all directions. Clouds of smoke collect overhead in a lazy trail upward while stars blaze from above, begging for the adoration they rightfully deserve.

The backdrop, though chaotic, reminds me of the painting with the quote in Coty’s room, and I reflect on how many chances I’ve been taking lately. Ever since graduation, there’s been a shift. Not only between me and Coty, but with the other two as well. There’s an attachment growing that somehow still feels like a liability—I just can’t figure out for who though.

It being a hot desert night, I take the hoodie off and tie it low on my hips, then head back to where I left the boys. A white and gray bike catches my attention on my way over and something about the rider makes me stop and stare. I’m not sure what exactly makes them different from the others but I can’t take my eyes off them if I tried. Not when they pull into a wheelie then step on the seat with one foot, not when they look over to pose for a picture holding the other leg up at a tricky angle, not when they land with practiced accuracy then pull over to park, and certainly not when they take off their helmet to reveal the difference between her and every other rider here. Yes, her. She shakes out long, wavy hair similarly colored to mine but darker with hints of red. Her smile—as big and mesmerizing as her riding skills—doesn’t reach her eyes which lock with mine for a split second before glancing away altogether. Men surround her on all sides, clapping her back, ogling her fit physique. She accepts their praise without really receiving it. I don’t know how to explain it, but there’s a melancholy there, a sense of invisibility only other lost people recognize. Suddenly, two guys break from the rest, implementing some sort of crowd control and her whole demeanor changes. The smile she offers them is genuine, warm, and I wonder if she’s in the same predicament I am.

I hear a deep voice beside me, breaking my reverie and turn to replace Marc looking at me expectantly. I didn’t even see him approach.

“What was that?”

“He doesn’t even see them.” He nods his head back toward his roommates. A handful of onlookers, mostly female, surround Coty and Beckett as they slap box each other, laughing and dodging half-strength blows. “I wonder if he ever did.” Marc’s eyes glaze over, deep in thought, and I hesitate, not wanting to break this rare moment.

“Maybe he should?”

He eyes me from the side. “Is that what you want?”

“I-” don’t know. I pick at the label on the bottle in my unsteady hold, clearing my throat. “He should have a chance with someone that’s worth his time.”

“And you’re not? Because you had a shitty childhood?”

His tone is gentler than I expected but still holds the same air of criticism I’ve heard a hundred times over. He doesn’t get it. No one does.

I drop the cider to my side, flinching when some sloshes out the top, landing next to my feet, and stirring up dirt.

“I’ve never seen a stable relationship in my life. To me they’re just a myth, a fairy tale for little kids who know nothing about the harsh realities awaiting them. How am I supposed to give Coty everything he wants out of life—marriage, kids, happiness—when I don’t even believe in happily-ever-afters myself?”

A few minutes pass of Marc glancing around the scene while I stare at my shoelaces, willing away the muddy spots there. No matter how hard I try, I’ll always be tainted.

“The first time I rode a dirt bike, I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I just wanted to get away from my dad. I used to hang out in our farm’s workshop, full of spare parts and tools. It was hot and dirty and nobody wanted to spend time in it unless they had to, so my father didn’t think to replace me there. One day someone dropped off their kid’s old dirt bike hoping we could salvage its working parts. It ran, but not well. I didn’t care though. I didn’t see what was wrong with it, I only saw the one thing I wanted more than anything else—freedom. I bought it on the spot with some birthday cash I’d saved and jumped right on it. No instructions on how to handle it, no rules where to go, nothing. I literally started the thing and took off, no destination in sight other than away. Far, far away.”

Quietly, I ask, “Did you make it?”

Marc barks out a laugh. “Fuck no. I ate shit ten seconds in.” He looks at me, a smile still playing at his lips before disappearing completely. “I was doing it for someone else. I wasn’t riding with my own goals in mind, only what I knew I didn’t want. So, I pushed the bike back, worked the rest of the afternoon on it and by the time I went to bed that night, I had a passion. One that gave me more than a distraction from my problems. It was something I liked, something I chose.” All these choices. How do they know they’re picking the right ones though? “Once I poured my heart into it, it became more than just a way to escape, it became my life. I treated that bike better than I’d ever treated anything and the next time I tested it out, I took my time. I rode my bike the way I wanted to, not the way I thought I needed to, and it worked. From then on, I rode everywhere, not just away.”

I think over his words, imagining his younger self putting in long hours on a secondhand dirt bike. What started out as feeling like a necessity to him, turned into a luxury he treasured and later made a life out of. One he didn’t even know anything about to begin with. While that may have worked out for his career path, and friend circle, it didn’t fix his relationship issues. Unless…

“Is that why you sneak around with Kary?”

Marc’s eyes narrow. “With Kary?” Shifting his glare above my head, he says, “You don’t know what you’re taking about.”

Before I can apologize for sticking my dirt-covered foot in my mouth, I catch a girl breaking away from the herd going straight for Coty as he stops for a drink.

I watch as she places her hand on Coty’s shoulder, the same shoulder I was sinking my teeth into just this morning to keep from waking his roommates, and my feet carry me forward without even deciding to move. Floating closer to the gathered crowd, I watch the whole thing play out while wishing I didn’t have to.

Coty brushes her off, locking eyes with me, but I stay rooted. She notices the exchange and her vigilant gaze falls over my body, landing at my shoes. I bite my lips between my teeth, closing my eyes briefly, and willing myself not to fidget.

I hear her sneer, “Are you with her or something?” but miss Coty’s response.

“Where’d you replace that piece of trash?” My eyes pop open, knowing she’s undoubtedly talking about me. “Do you and Daddy share his projects now?”

And that does it. I dart away in the next breath, getting in her face. “I found him actually. I searched ‘guys that have taste’ and his name popped up. Crazy, right?”

I try my hand at imitating one of Amity’s trademark cheerleader smiles, leveling it directly at the girl. It feels more clownish than anything but I’ve always thought the two were one and the same. They both sport stretched out, borderline maniacal, smiles while performing choreographed routines. It’s the visibility of the teeth that sets them apart and with the thin layer of dust settling on mine I’m hopefully leaning toward crazed cheerleader status. Either way, it’s unsettling—for all of us.

Off to the side Beckett pipes up, whining, “Hey, what does that say about me?”

I wink over at him, then lean in closer so only she can hear me, and steady my voice when I say, “He isn’t up for grabs.” Maybe Coty should see what other options are better suited for him, but this one isn’t it and I’m happy to let her know.

Her lips dip in a patronizing way that I’ll never be able to unsee, sneering, “For now.”

A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead watching her slink away. Isn’t that what I’ve been saying all along? That Coty’s interest would fade once he figured it out. Once he figured me out.

Marc’s story was inspiring and all, but what he fails to see is some things are beyond repair. The dirt bike he acquired had good bones. All he needed to do was improve what he already had. I’m starting from square one. From absolutely nothing. These guys may be skilled mechanics, but that doesn’t change the fact that you can’t fix what isn’t there.

Coty approaches me, eyes already in search-and-recover mode. “What’d she say to you?”

I pop a shoulder, stepping around him. “Nothing really.”

His hand reaches out to stop me and I look up, focusing on his matted hairline instead. Not replaceing what I’ve tucked out of reach, he lets me go, but only after a hard kiss on the mouth—a punishing kiss because he knows I’m holding back. If only he knew exactly how much.

Only Marc and Coty resume their show while I watch somewhat distracted until Beckett calls me over to a half-circle of cars. Breaking from my frozen stance, I join him as he hands me a spiked lemonade to replace my empty bottle. I down half the tangy drink before wiping my mouth and thanking him. He makes introductions while I keep one eye on the black bike racing alongside the red accented one in the distance, the boys’ bikes kicking up tails of dust as they compete heartily. I worry my lip when both brake lights disappear from sight.

I hear, “we already know each other,” and turn my full attention to the man closest to Beckett.

“We do?”

After getting a good look at him, I realize his face does look vaguely familiar.

“Yeah, we work together. I’m over in detailing. Angela, right?”

He sticks his hand out and Beckett looks from the hand to me and back. I reach for it, still trying to place him. Shaking his quickly, I wrap both hands around my drink again.

“Sorry, what’s your name?”

“It’s all good, you’re a busy girl. I’m Steve.” I scowl at his comment and notice Beckett do the same.

“Working the front definitely keeps me busy,” I joke, trying to keep my voice light but he shakes his head.

“I wasn’t talking about that.” His tone takes on an accusatory edge.

I look to Beckett again, replaceing him just as confused as I am. Quickly recovering, he places his hand on my shoulder, teasing, “Neighbor girl has a lot going on. It’s not easy juggling us three.” I slap him off which delights him immensely.

My smile falls when I see Steve raptly watch my neighbor’s hand fall away.

“Does Joe know that?”

At my boss’s name, Beckett stiffens.

And it hits me. Steve is the one that walked in that night in the bay. I only caught a glimpse of his face before I booked it out of there, but there’s no doubt in my mind it was him. His harsh tone is as baffling as it is unappreciated.

“How do you mean?”

Steve drains his beer before carelessly tossing it aside. An asshole and a litterer. What’s his problem? He pushes away from the car, bringing us closer. Beckett stays quiet, but inches my way, keeping his focus solely on Steve.

A couple feet away, he stops, sticking his thumbs in his front pockets. “Everyone knows who Joe’s pets are. He calls dibs and we wait ‘til he’s done to get ours. He’s been yapping about you for a while though and from the look of things,” his gaze touches on Beckett before returning to mine, “he’s okay with sharing this time. I’m just wondering what I gotta do to get a piece, too?” His tongue darts out, licking his bottom lip and I feel my stomach turn.

“The fuck? Angie, what’s he talking about?”

“I don’t know.” I throw my hands up. “Joe’s my boss and that’s it. Whatever he does with other girls is none of my business. The sick pact you guys have with each other is news to me, but I promise I want nothing to do with Joe or anyone else at Hot Spots, so you can leave me out of your demented game.”

Steve springs forward, but Beckett sticks his hand out, catching his shirt in a massive fist between us.

“Bro, you don’t want to do that. Step. Back.”

The tempo of “Blood In The Water” builds from a nearby car as Steve assesses Beckett, then looks back to me, a sinister smile marring his face. An engine revving cuts off, then in the next instant Coty is at my side—helmet off, fists clenched.

“Do me a favor and get the fuck back.”

“I’m fine right here,” Steve drawls lazily, raising the hairs on the back of my neck.

“I wasn’t asking. Get the fuck out of my girl’s face. Now.”

Coty nods at Beckett so he presses on the guy’s chest as a last ditch effort to move him. Steve shrugs it off, which is actually quite impressive considering the size difference, and advances on Coty. Coty pivots to face him fully while sliding me behind his back in one smooth motion.

“I thought this was a communal thing. Can’t I get a turn?” Steve taunts, trying to meet my eyes.

Coty crowds him further as I hear another engine quickly approaching. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Steve never gets a chance to answer because Marc, still wearing his helmet, rushes up and head-butts him in the face, sending his ass flying to the dirt-packed ground. Guys from the other cars dash over, and Marc wastes no time punching anyone within reach. Coty pushes me away before lunging at guys in his range, taking each one down after the last. Beckett tosses a pair of friends trying to help Steve, leaving him to fend for himself.

They’re all busy when Steve eventually sits up so I scramble over to lean down to his level, and with a chunk of his hair in my grasp, I force him to look me in the eye.

“What does Joe say about me?” Even though I have a pretty good idea, I still need to hear it.

Steve’s face splits into a bloody smile. “That your pretty pink puss is worth the wait.”

Crimson coats my vision as bile clogs my throat. Without considering the consequences, I yank his head down, slamming his face into my lifted knee, effectively cutting off his menacing laugh. The nauseating crunch causes me to gasp, releasing his hair. His nose gushes more than it already was but I refuse to feel sorry for him. Women aren’t amusement rides with lines for any idiot wanting to get their kicks off for thirty seconds. We’re the prize only serious prospects work their asses off to win a chance with.

I’m suddenly yanked backward and my elbow jabs into a hard side without a second thought.

“Shit, Angie.” Beckett grabs his torso, scowling at me.

I shrug while muttering, “Sorry.” All’s fair in mass fights, right?

We look down at Steve’s slumped form as he groans from the ground. Beckett’s eyebrow raises in question, but I ignore him and the waste of space currently rolling around in pain.

“We gotta go.”

He ushers me to his green bike, tossing me his spare helmet.

“What about Marc and Coty? I’m not leaving them.”

“They’re right behind us.”

Coty peers over from holding a guy by his shirt collar and jerks his head, telling me to go. He releases the limp heap to the ground, then grabs Marc. They run over to mount their bikes as Beckett and I do the same. He tries to readjust my hands before giving up and taking off with them still on the tank. We speed off without so much as a backward glance at the shitstorm a douche named Steve created.

Fucking Steve.