Page 42 of Shade
Thirteen. Rhya’s age that night in Glen Helen.
Here’s another number.
Eighteen. Jaime’s age that night.
What’s your take on him now?
Let me guess, pile of shit?
At least we’re on the same page.
I still don’t turn around to face Jaime. At this point, Iwantto piss him off. “You know, it’s funny, but I can’t say it is good to see you,” I mumble, running my hands through my sweat-soaked hair.
Tiller stops in front of me, grinning, as he exaggeratedly grabs a hand full of front brake. His back wheel rises off the concrete as he slides to a stop on the front wheel.
Lately, Tiller finds my interactions with people fascinating, and I think that’s the only reason he comes over. Probably because I’m more like him and less like the carefree kid I once was. The one who’d do anything to get a rise out of people and had fun on a bike. I don’t knowthatguy anymore.
I give Tiller a head nod. Jaime gets nothing. I’m being cocky, but you don’t see the internal reaction I’m having. Like the way my stomach clenches, anger and adrenaline rushing through me at the thoughts of what he did to Rhya.
Out of my peripheral vision, I see Jaime fold his arms over his chest, his eyes burning into mine, willing me to react. “Pretty boy’s got a chip on his shoulders these days, huh?” His chin lifts andhegives me a head nod.
I want to knock his motherfucking teeth in.
My head swims with thoughts and memories of that night at Glen Helen. It’s locked on Rhya’s eyes when she told me what actually happened. I remembered walking inside Jaime’s trailer an hour before that and catching him with a girl. I didn’t think anything of it. Had I known at the time that girl was Rhya underneath him, I would have done anything I could have to stop him.
But I didn’t know it was her. I do now, and Jaime needs to know that. At least I think he does. I could be wrong here, though. It’s happened like one other time. Me being wrong that is.
I think, and don’t put too much weight on my theory here, but he’s trying to piss me off. You know what, I’m the fucking bait and step toward him. “Why are you here?”
Jaime chuckles under his breath and revs his bike, holding his head to the side of his helmet like he can’t hear me over the scream of the 2-stroke.
Now what do you think of him?
As pissed as I am, I find a little humor in his actions. A little. I’m not even sure what part. Maybe all of it? Maybe the fact that I’m going to have to deal with the fuckface more often than I want to.
While Tiller remains on his bike, arms crossed over his chest, Roan approaches me, a big-brother warning in his stance and eyes. He knows where I’m about to go.
He holds up a hand to stop me. As if he can. Deep down he’s dealt with me enough to know trying to stop me is pointless. “Drop it.”
Not likely I’m going to drop this one.
Have you ever been bitten by a fire ant? Tiller has. I once pushed him into a mound of them. Some say that’s what’s wrong with him now. He spent three days in the hospital. Turns out, he’s allergic to them.
Who knew.
Do you know how fire ants bite? They bite only to get a grip on you and then sting from their abdomen and inject a toxic venom. It fucking stings, believe me. It’s similar to well, getting burned. Hence the name fire ant. They’re aggressive, but you know what’s fascinating about these ants?
Their ability to survive extreme conditions. Hell, they can even form a raft with their bodies.
My point?
They attack aggressively when disturbed. If provoked, they swarm the intruder, anchor themselves by biting the skin and then sting. Repeatedly.
The biting, then the sting, that’s grieving a loss of someone in your life. It doesn’t just stop overnight. It comes in waves, so they say. Or stings if you ask me.
Do you think knowing this I can simply drop it as Roan suggests?
Nope.
