Page 8 of Pining for Pierce
Besides, I’m not asking for much. All I’m looking for is someone I can have a conversation with, whose company doesn’t drive me insane, who doesn’t talk incessantly, who doesn’t mind the fact that I like to paint in my spare time, and who understands that my tattoos are a form of artistic expression. They’re nothing to do with me being ‘bad’, or ‘good’or anything in between. She has to like my bike, too. I don’t ask that she loves it like I do, but liking it would be a good start. In fact, it would be a miracle if experience is anything to go by.
I shake my head, pulling into the garage behind the antiques store, switching off the engine, and sliding my helmet onto the rack, alongside Harley’s, as I think back to how one of my girlfriends – Gwen, I think her name was – once called it dangerous and juvenile. I’m pretty sure she was talking about the bike, and not me, although there’s no guarantee. Luckily, I’d already worked out we weren’t right for each other, but those two words were the nail in the coffin as far as I was concerned.
I’m really careful about my bike, and about riding it. And there’s nothing either dangerous or juvenile about that. Or me. Not really.
I lock the garage and go inside and up the stairs to my apartment, taking off my gloves and putting them into my jacket pockets before hooking it up behind the door. Then I wander into the living room and sit on the couch. I let my head rock back, wondering if I should have ignored my doubts, and stayed with Kenna. We’d have been in bed by now, if I had, there’s no doubting that. And she was hot. She was really hot. I doubt she’d have disappointed. But the thing is, it wouldn’t have lasted. It would have been another night of casual sex, and although I know this sounds weird, I’m getting sick of casual sex. It can’t be that I’m getting old. Twenty-six isn’t old… although I have to admit, I’ve been doing this for a long time. Maybe that’s the problem. I’m just tired of it. I’m bored with the same routines, with the same women… and always knowing they won’t be right.
They won’t be perfect… and they won’t be the one for me.
Although I know she’s out there somewhere.
She has to be.
I love the attic room.
I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was the only reason I took the job at the antiques store… but it was instrumental in the decision. When Bridget and Rob suggested I might like to work for them, I honestly wasn’t sure. My first doubt was that working for my best friend’s parents might prove awkward. My second doubt was that it would mean staying here in Hart’s Creek… and I wasn’t sure I wanted to do that. I’d been away at college for four years. I’d had a taste of freedom, and I wasn’t willing to give it up and move back with my dad. Of course, when they offered me the use of the apartment above the store, that put an entirely different complexion on things. I’d have freedom, the chance to earn a living – a lot of which I could save – and I could do what I wanted most of all. Namely, paint. Naturally, when I saw the attic room, I was sold. It’s got space, and light, and it’s the ideal studio. It’s where I spend most of my spare time, when I’m not out sketching… or wasting my time with women who aren’t right for me.
I shake my head, trying to forget about last night, and focus on the canvas in front of me. It’s another seascape… one of many. And I have to say, it’s going well. The only thing that’s a little disappointing is that I’m working from a photograph, and I’d much rather create something from real life. The problem with that is, Hart’s Creek is nowhere near the coast, and that’s a drawback. Still, I like the way the sky is coming along, and I stand back slightly, and nod my head, studying the clouds before checking my watch.
“Man… I need to go.”
As usual, when I’m up here, I’ve lost track of time, and I need to leave, or I’ll be late.
I wash my brushes, leaving them to dry, and take a last look at the canvas, smiling to myself, before I head down the stairs.
I haven’t eaten, but I don’t have time, and I grab my jacket, shrugging it on as I run down to the first floor and let myselfout, pulling on my gloves as I go. It only takes a minute or two to pull on my helmet, lock Harley’s to the clip at the back of the bike, before getting it started, and then I’m on my way, heading out of Hart’s Creek, toward Willmont Vale.
This is a journey I’ve made countless times, and the bike almost seems to know the way itself, making it a relaxing ride, which ends when I pull up outside Harley’s house… or rather her parents’ house. They’re not here, of course. They’ve gone on vacation, and I’m about to climb off of the bike when I look up and see her walking around the side of the garage.
She gives me a cute wave, knowing I won’t be able to hear her, and I unlock her helmet, handing it across, watching as she pulls it on, covering her strawberry blonde hair. I check the straps are tight, and she rests her hand on my shoulder, climbing up behind me. She fits neatly against me, her slim body molding to mine, her legs clamping tight to the outside of my thighs, and I quickly adjust the bluetooth, before saying, “Can you hear me?”
“Yes.” Her reply sounds in my ear and I nod my head, waiting until she’s completely settled, her hands tight around my waist, before I walk the bike backwards and turn it around.
“Ready?”
“Sure thing.”
Harley’s confident on the bike… and that’s not just because she’s named after one. It’s because she’s lived around them all her life. Her parents used to ride when they were younger, and so did her brother, Ben. He’s my best friend, even though he’s moved to New York now, and Harley used to come out with us sometimes, mostly on the back of Ben’s Yamaha… although she always joked with him that she preferred my Kawasaki. And I can’t say I blame her. Now Ben’s no longer here, Harley comes out with me. Not all the time, but every so often, when neither of us is busy doing something else.
We mostly meet up on Sunday afternoons, like today, and I take the chance to do some sketching, while Harley will either read, or just watch what I’m doing. I’ve always enjoyed her company. She knows when to talk and when to keep quiet… when I’m concentrating, and when I could use some inspiration or distraction because things aren’t going well.
I guess that comes from having known each other for so long.
Neither of us has to try.
We just get it.
I take her to one of our favorite places, about ten miles outside the town, parking the bike alongside the creek. It’s pretty hot, and Harley pulls off her helmet, shaking her blonde head, before she removes the backpack she brought with her, followed by her gloves and jacket, revealing a pretty blouse above her jeans.
“That’s better,” she says, her baby blue eyes sparkling up at me as I lower the kickstand and dismount, pulling off my own gloves and helmet and unzipping my jacket.
Harley’s already opened her backpack, pulling out a blanket, which I help her set out on the ground, and we both sit.
“How’s work?” I ask her, pulling my sketchpad from the inside pocket of my jacket, before I remove it and lie it on the blanket beside me.
“Not bad.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Doc Singleton wasn’t in on Friday, so it was kinda busy.”
I shake my head. “I would’ve thought Doc Singleton being absent was an advantage.”
