Chapter 2 - JayceNamid

Chapter 2

Jayce

My jacket isn't in the truck. Of course it's not. Why would a task as basic as keeping track of a jacket be something I'm capable of anymore? I have other jackets, but this is the jacket I wear when I ride. This is the jacket I wore when we rode. This jacket matters. Maybe I took it inside this morning when I went to meet Mr. Johnson and started this whole fucked up mess of a day. I don't want to go back in there. I want to forget any of this ever happened. I want to drink and cry and curl up in the dark only to wake up and find it was all a nightmare.

I don't want to wake up at all.

I don't know the man who answers the door. It's certainly not Mr. Johnson. I've seen the man before, and I know who he is of course; everyone in town does. I've caught glimpses of his back in the supermarket a time or two and seen him smile at Jordyn and the shitty receptionist we employed for three months last year as he picked up Mr. Johnson's beat-up old Ford from the shop. I don't remember where else I may have encountered him. Though he's not completely unfamiliar, I've never seen him up close, and I've certainly never spoken with him.

Jordyn usually handled the clients at the shop, and it's been years since I've had to smile and make small talk about the weather while someone tries to convince me to take just a few more dollars off the cost of their brake job. I actually like people in most settings, and more often than not, I'm described as the "life of the party." I simply don't like spending my time haggling with folks over ten dollars when we're all better off if I'm busy getting actual work done. Jordyn and I have always been a good… were always a good team like that.

When Jordyn and I opened the shop at the tender age of twenty-four with our parents' life insurance money, not a lot of people thought we would succeed. After all, out here in the middle of nowhere, people are resourceful, and folks are primarily their own mechanics. At first, I think some people brought us small jobs like brake replacements that they'd usually complete on their own simply because they felt sorry for the boys who'd lost their family to a patch of ice on the highway. Eventually, they found it was worth the money to hire us so that they could free up their time for other things. A few other folks brought in old projects that had been sitting around waiting for them to get to "one of these days." Things like fixing up their old vintage Corvettes or figuring out why their tractor just "doesn't run like it used to." Work was slow, and money was tight for a year or so, but we managed to stay in business. Jordyn was good with finances and people, and I'm good with my hands. The business has more than stabilized over the past few years - it's flourished.

Now everything has changed.

Now, as I stand in the cold trying to figure out where I've seen this man outside of the shop, it suddenly hits me yet again that I'll have to find a way to do it all myself, and the suffocating darkness threatens to overtake me once more.

I force my mind back to jacket recovery.

I know the man who answers the door lives and works with Mr. Johnson, but I can't for the life of me remember his name. My life doesn't really matter to me right now, and I can't gather enough emotion outside of my grief to care that it might seem rude that I don't know it, even though I probably should. On more than one occasion, Mr. Johnson has said that this man feels like more of a son to him than his actual son. I know he's thankful to have been the one to find him all those years ago, and he's grateful that when it became clear the man would likely never recover his memory, he eventually decided to stay. I can only imagine how lonely Mr. Johnson's life would have been without him. I don't have to imagine because that's the life that now lies ahead of me.

It was an odd situation, the way he found an unknown young man, naked on the side of the highway in the middle of nowhere with no memory. I know that most people in town have reluctantly accepted him - though they're hesitant to accept any outsiders - but a handful still believe he's up to something nefarious. What evil they think he's hoping to accomplish by living in a one-room cabin, befriending a lonely older man, and helping to run the funeral home that barely makes ends meet is beyond me.

He's beautiful up close. Truly beautiful. His skin is pale. Not in the way most people have pale skin in this place that has far more darkness than sunlight, but in a way that almost seems iridescent, though that feels like a strange word to use to describe a person. He's shorter than my six-foot-two - but only by a couple of inches - slimmer too, and he's wearing a thin navy sweater that clings to his strong shoulders and drapes across his chest. He's not large or muscled or imposing. He's athletic and lithe and perfect. His hair is jet black, and when he opens the door and a ray of sunlight engulfs him, it almost appears to contain hints of blue or purple. It's cut tight on the sides - nearly shaved along his neck - lengthening toward the crown of his head. The top section is quite long and flows in soft, graceful waves. Several strands dip across his temple and forehead as he moves. His eyes are blue. Not the pale sky blue that people write about in romance novels and gush to cast in Hallmark movies, but a blue so dark it's barely still blue. Navy or indigo. It's not a color I've ever realized eyes could be.

I lose myself in that blue. I lose myself in such a way that, for a moment, I forget about my jacket. I forget about the aching darkness that threatens to pull me under the tide. I forget how to think and breathe and exist. There is nothing but the blue depths of the deepest sea staring at me in the form of this graceful man's eyes.

"Hi."

His greeting is so quiet that I'm not sure he really spoke, and he looks almost scared. I haven't said anything, haven't stepped toward him. I'm tall and muscled from lugging heavy car parts and working with my hands, and I know I can be intimidating when I want to be, but I haven't done anything other than stand here. Why does he look afraid of me? Maybe it's my certainly swollen red eyes. Maybe it's simply the grief and loss that must be rolling off of me in tangible waves in all directions.

I take a small step back. I don't want him to look at me that way anymore.

"Ya, umm. I'm sorry to bother you. I think I might have left my jacket. It's plain black leather."

He blinks a few times, confusion joining the fear on his face.

"I was here this morning."

I pause and force my throat to let the words pass through it.

"For my brother."

Relief floods his face. Relief, followed by sorrow, as he steps back into the building with a soft, professional smile.

"Of course. I'm so sorry. We haven't met, and you look…"

He trails off, clearly realizing that telling me I look just like Jordyn might not be the best choice .

"I know," is all I can manage to squeak out.

His smile softens further, and he gestures me into the reception area.

"Give me a few moments, and I'll look around for you."

His voice is deeper than I would have expected from a man of his size and build. It's gentle and smooth, but not in the way Mr. Johnson's is. Mr. Johnson has spent his life speaking with people during some of the hardest moments of their lives. He's trained his voice to sound comforting and supportive. This man's voice doesn't feel trained. It feels natural, like it's meant to be the smoothest thing in existence. It's like the voice of a lifelong monk whose throat knows only gentle songs of praise, or the sound of a waterfall cascading into a hidden spring, or the first sip of a twenty-year-old single malt whiskey. I want to listen to him talk forever.

All I'm capable of is a nod.

I watch him walk away as he leaves the room. He moves with an elegance and grace that I've rarely seen. He moves as if he is deeply and completely a part of the world rather than someone moving through it, like if he were to stroll through the forest, willows would part their branches, and birds would land on his shoulders just to be near him.

When he returns, it's with my jacket folded across his arm and a genuine smile on his face. It's still tempered by professionalism, of course; he knows why I was here this morning. Even so, he seems thrilled that he is able to help me with this, like this small offering in this moment might be able to lighten my burden somehow .

"Found it."

He unfolds it carefully and steps close to place it in my waiting hand.

"Thank you," I mumble, hopefully coherently.

"You're more than welcome."

His fingers brush mine as we transfer the cool, thick leather, and pain flickers across his face. So much pain. His expression is a reflection of the way I feel. It's almost like our brief, simple touch offers him a window into my soul.

"You'll be okay again one day."

His voice is soft and silken as it slides along my spine, our fingers still touching where we both hold my coat. Many people have said that to me today. People I've known most of my life. I didn't believe them. I barely even heard them, but for one brief, tentative moment, my heart wants to believe this beautiful man.

"Thank you."

I choke out the words like a prayer for salvation whispered in the depth of night.

Our skin separates, and he leads me back to the door, smiling kindly once again, his face holding no trace of the pain I thought I saw skitter across it.

I manage to nod and turn toward my truck, forgetting to shrug on the jacket I've retrieved as I cling to the memory of the sound of his voice.