LENORE
18 years old
We pulled into a gas station off the highway. The fuel gauge was nearly on empty, and he didn’t want to risk stalling in the middle of nowhere.
He parked the bike beside the nearest pump, cut the engine, and swung one leg off. Then he leaned in close, lifting my helmet’s visor so he could see my eyes.
“What are you doing?” I asked, glancing up at him.
“Looking at my favorite color,” he said, smiling faintly before turning away.
He grabbed the nozzle from the pump, unscrewed the cap on the bike’s tank, and slid the nozzle. I could feel the smell of fuel through the helmet as he filled the tank. When it clicked full, he placed the pump back in its holster, screwed the cap shut, and,without a word, walked inside to pay, leaving me there on the back of the bike, alone.
I could hear the engine of a car pulling in, and then a truck pulled up beside us. The driver’s window rolled down, and he moved his face out so I could see it.
“Lenore Thorn,” a man said. He looked like he was in his early twenties, smug and cocky.
“Do I know you?” I asked.
“I know you,” he said. “But the real question is, how well do you know your stepbrother?”
He laughed as he tossed a white ski mask and a stack of folded newspapers toward me. Then the truck peeled away, engine snarling, just as Dorian stepped out of the station.
I stared down at what had landed in my lap. The ski mask in my hands, and when I opened the newspaper, the front page nearly stole my breath.
The date was three years ago. The headline screamed about a bank robbery in Salem.
And the photo, grainy, black and white, showed a man in a ski mask staring into a security camera with a middle finger in the air.
The eyes were dark. Too familiar. I knew those eyes.
It had to be him.
Dorian walked back to the bike, a bottle of water in his hand. The plastic crinkled in his grip as he saw what I was holding.
“Is this why you stayed?” I asked, lifting the ski mask, pulling off my helmet so he could see my face.
“No, Trouble, I...” he started.
“Then explain,” I said. “Did you stay because you were hiding? Or did you stay because you wanted to?”
“I wanted to stay,” he said, stepping closer. “I could have left so many times. But I didn’t. I stayed foryou.”
“Is that the truth?” I asked, my voice soft, my eyes searching his.
“I promise you it is.” He took another step, close enough that I could feel his breath. “I’m not a good man. But I’m not a liar either.”
“You are a good man,” I told him. “And sometimes good men do bad things.”
“I could do better,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against mine. “For you…”
He inhaled deeply.
“But I won’t,” he said. “You didn’t fall for a good man. You fell for me.”
“And I would fall again,” I said. “But can we go home?”
“Okay.” He kissed my forehead. “Okay.”
