21. Bad Witchery

TWENTY-ONE

BAD WITCHERY

Photograph, Ed Sheeran

Roe

It’s been a long few weeks, but race weekend is finally here. I haven’t been able to find my rhythm since the whole tattoo chair shenanigans with Saint. And by ‘find my rhythm,’ I mean I haven’t been able to stop thinking about any of it. I’ve never experienced anything or anyone getting stuck in my mind this long.

Usually, I hyper-fixate on something for a few days and then move on, but this is beyond that. This is waking up in the middle of the night all hot and bothered thinking about his rough hands against my pussy. This is not being able to run more than a few miles without thinking about how lonely it feels without him. This is me being beyond mad that he didn’t show up to run with me or to eat breakfast at Ronnie’s. I would know because I went to the diner every day to see if he would. Insane. That’s what’s going on with me. I’m going crazy because who the fuck gets so infatuated with a man like this? Someone who ’ s never come that hard at the hands of anyone but herself before, that ’ s who. I hate that I keep thinking about him, even when it comes to the race. Maybe I’ll see him there, I told myself while I was getting ready. Ridiculous.

This weekend’s race is in Punta Gorda, and even though it’s about a four-hour drive from Baker, it takes me almost six because I refuse to drive on the highway. The last time I did, I had to stop because it felt like the world was closing in around me. It feels like a giant rock is on my chest and my breathing slows to the point where I see stars. I hate it. I feel out of control and I can’t recover afterward. I would rather be on the road longer than experiencing that, so the backroads it is.

The view is a bonus. Luscious trees color the side of the road in different shades of green contrasting with the blue sky. It doesn’t matter that it’s hotter than Hades outside, I have the windows down with the wind flowing through the Jeep and Dua Lipa playing on the radio. A girl couldn’t ask for more.

I’m shouting to the music as loud as I can because IDGAF is such a bop when I feel the Jeep shake. I lower the volume because I need complete silence to focus, and the vehicle continues vibrating. Shit, shit shit. I pull over to the emergency lane just in time for the Jeep to stop completely, and smoke starts rising from the hood.

What in the actual fuckery type of bad witchery is this?

I let out something in between a sigh and a groan. Hitting the steering wheel with my fists and cussing more than I have in a while, I let out all of my frustration before I get out to see what the hell happened. Before I do, I think that maybe it was just a rough patch. I’m hoping that maybe I hit a pothole full of fire or something and the smoke didn’t come out of this precious beast. I try to turn the key to see if the Jeep will do anything but it’s futile. A small attempt but luck has left me behind.

I roughly open the door and walk to the hood, inspecting for who knows what. I can change a tire, fill my windshield wiper fluid, and pump gas but that’s about how far my vehicle expertise comes. I clearly can’t tell what happened but I definitely can smell the acidic coolant hitting my nostrils, mixed with what I figure melting metal would smell like. This can ’ t be good.

I climb back into the Jeep to get my phone. All I can do now is call a tow truck and kiss my race weekend goodbye. The air that previously brushed my face with tenderness is now a harsh hand wrapping around my throat and cutting off my oxygen now. It’s eerily quiet, with just distant birds chirping and not even a breeze to help make this place feel alive. There’s nothing around here, other than the Goethe Forest and the quiet state road. I’m completely alone.

I check my phone and there’s no signal. But that won’t stop me from trying to find some, somewhere. I climb to the top of my Jeep and I’m all but dangling from the roof when I finally get through to roadside assistance. It’ll be an hour before they’re here so might as well make myself comfortable.

I’m lying in the backseat, feet propped on the window, reading my latest dark romance addiction on my Kindle when a dark shadow looms over me and I jolt. “Fucking shit, you scared me,” I shout to the infuriating man standing by my window.

“Then maybe don’t get so lost in a book that you can’t hear someone pulling up behind you to possibly kill you,” Saint deadpans.

“Have you ever read a book that’s so good that the world is better than the one you’re living in?” I ask, sitting up and looking at him like he’s the last person I want to see, even though all I want is to jump through the window and hug him. The words comfort and safe pop in my head as soon as I see him, and I don’t know if I should flee or fight because it’s been so long since I’ve felt that. “Because until you do, you can’t tell me shit about how I choose to read.”

“Tranquila, tranquila.? 1 I’m just saying, you’re on the side of the road, by yourself, in this deserted area and you weren’t paying attention to your surroundings. It’s not safe,” he says. He’s standing in front of me looking like a damn snack, wearing a fitted white tee, dark jeans, and black Ray Bans. I can’t tell if his gaze is on me or not, which is the most unnerving thing in the world, especially when he’s smirking with his full lips and driving me wild.

“Not that deserted if you’re here, right?” I narrow my eyes at him.

“I was just passing on the way to Punta Gorda and stopped when I saw you.” He takes a look at the Jeep’s front and then back at me. “You good?”

Letting out a deep breath and dropping myself back on the seat, I reply, “I’m good. Lola, on the other hand? No.”

“Who’s Lola?” he asks as he leans his beautifully tatted forearms on the window and rests his face on them.

“The one responsible for my transportation,” I answer, patting the passenger seat and dropping my arm dramatically.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“How am I supposed to know? It made some rumbling noises, shut off, and smoke came out,” I say, completely annoyed by this whole thing but even more so that Saint has to see me in this situation.

I watch him walk to the driver’s side, open the door, and pop the hood. He lifts the hood and starts inspecting the engine like it’s his job. I’m sure if you were to look at my face right now, you would see how confused I am. What is he doing? I know he has that savior complex of his but I didn’t realize it made him stick his nose in everything that goes wrong.

“Roe, when was the last time you took this for maintenance?” he shouts over the open hood and the noise of the birds nearby.

I’m not doing this screaming shit, so I get out and walk around to find him elbows deep into the engine bay. Like he senses my body next to him, he looks up at me, surely waiting for a reply.

“Roe?” he asks.

“I don’t know, okay? I think it was on my calendar to go but then I forgot, and I don’t think I ever made another appointment.”

He shakes his head and closes the hood just as the tow truck pulls up. They talk first and then the driver asks for my information. I walk to Lola to get the papers and by the time I walk back, Saint is walking toward his truck.

We exchange information. He asks me questions and I reply to the best of my ability. What I notice is that he doesn’t ask me where he should take Lola. He has me sign this little paper and tells me to give him room to work.

Walking back toward Lola, I notice Santiago is moving my bike and loading it behind his truck. Holy shit . I completely missed the gorgeous toy hauler hooked to his truck. It looks new. Shimmering silver edges frame the matte-black trailer that perfectly matches his black truck.

I run toward the back while inspecting the beautiful setup he has going on. This might be more panty-dropping than his smile, and that’s saying a lot. But when I get to the open back, I see that the outside has nothing on the beauty of the inside. The ramp is down while he secures my bike to one of the hooks with the wench straps. I can see that the garage side of the trailer is stocked with his bike, gear, helmet, and fuel. It smells like the racetrack, but cleaner. It’s pristine in here and the scent of bleach lingers.

I’m so enamored by the trailer that I almost miss Saint walking past me. I turn to face him quickly but he just keeps walking toward my Jeep—which is currently getting loaded onto the tow truck. I’m lost and I wish someone would explain to me what the hell is going on.

“Saint,” I shout, practically pouting and crossing my arms like a toddler. Something about my voice stops him dead in his tracks and he turns around to look at me. Frozen in place, he allows me time and space to figure out what the hell I want to say. I walk toward him and lift my sunglasses off my face. “What the hell is going on?”

My voice is on the verge of shaking and he must notice because he walks to me and wraps me in an embrace. Not in a sweet hug; it’s more like being compressed. He’s squeezing me in a pattern. Squeeze tight. Let go. Squeeze tight two times. Let go.

“Saint,” I whisper.

“Shh, listen,” he says, continuing to squeeze me. I can feel my breath slowing down and my heart settling. With each squeeze, the hum in my ears lowers and everything around me seems clearer. I can hear the wind and the birds again. I can feel my skin, warm and sticky as he pulls me tighter. “I’m pretty sure you blew up your motor. At least, melted it. I’m assuming you’re going to Punta Gorda too since your bike is here and I saw your tent too. There’s nothing you can do about the Jeep so they will take it back to Baker and you and I will go to the race.”

“No, I’m not going. I need to get my Jeep fixed,” I argue, tensing under his touch.

“Who will fix your Jeep?” He lets me go from his embrace, but his hands remain on my shoulders. “You’re looking at the one mechanic that can, and I’m not there. Also, you might need a new motor.”

“Actually, my friend Jake owns an auto shop, he can fix it,” I sass back.

“Yeah, he’s my boss. He’s also out of town for a work conference and his dad is on vacation.”

I stare at him because what else can I do? This man knows so much about my life, and I didn’t even know that he works for Jake or that he is a mechanic for that matter. Pretty shitty of me.

“I’m not going to the race with you.”

“You are. Grab your bag so I can finish talking to the driver.”

Saint walks away from me like he didn’t just boss me around and I have the sudden urge to yell, shout, and stomp my feet. I can’t even grab my bag because Lola is already up in the monstrosity of the tow truck and I’m not climbing that shit. He wants me to go with him? Fine, but he can grab my stuff.

I stand there, sun bright and warming my body, but also casting a golden light on his bronze skin. He might be talking to the tow truck driver but his gaze is on me. Intense and fixed on my body. I don’t know if it’s desire, concern, or annoyance but whatever flavor it is, he won’t take his eyes off of me.

“Ready?” he huffs, snapping me out of it, again.

“I already told you; I’m not going.”

He’s not even entertaining my temper tantrum anymore. He climbs on the back of the truck, grabs my goose bag, overnight bag, and helmet and walks them to the trailer. He comes back and grabs the rest of my gear, a scowl painting his stupidly gorgeous face.

“Is there anything else you need in there?” he asks, and when my only reply is recrossing my arms over my chest, he climbs back up, grabs my water cup and my Kindle, and walks toward me.

“I’m. Not. Going.” I deadpan and in a split-second, I’m being scooped and carried upside down with my ass in the air by his face and my face next to his ass. Saint’s arm wraps around my legs as he walks toward the truck.

“Put me down, you asshole. I said I wasn’t going and you can’t make me,” I shout, kicking and pounding on his ass. He’s built like a rock so he doesn’t even flinch when I hit him. So, I do the only thing I can think of to shock him. I grab his hips and lower myself even more, until my mouth is hovering over his ass and bite him, hard.

“Did you just bite me, pira?ita? 2 ?” he asks with a low chuckle that sends goosebumps over my skin. I hate that he has that effect on me. Opening the passenger door and setting my ass down on the seat, he smiles at me. He tries to buckle me up but I pull the seat belt from him and do it myself. He hands me my water cup and my Kindle and closes the door before walking to the other side.

He sits next to me, his clean-shaven face on display, the tight tee hugging his forearm and showing off some of his tattoos. The leather bracelet on his wrist pulls my attention, and for the first time I notice a small ella tattooed just above the band. Before I can think better of it, I grab his hand, pulling it to me and tracing my fingers over the tattoo.

“What does it mean?” I ask.

“It’s the ending of all my sisters’ names,” Saint answers before pulling his hand from me, putting the truck in drive, and heading down the road.

Some sort of Latin music is playing—Bad Bunny, according to the radio screen—but he’s quiet. His hand is still resting in my lap from when I pulled it to me earlier.

“How many sisters do you have?” I ask, breaking the silence between us.

“Three on earth, and one in heaven.” He pulls his hand from me, turning his arm around to show me four dots and a dash. “Anabella, Isabella, Daniella, Gabriella, and me. The odd one out.” The ending of his sisters ’ names.

“They don’t go by their full names, unless my mom is yelling at them. Gabby is the youngest and she’s a complete mess. We all baby her and she uses it to her advantage. We all know it too and still give in; we don’t have a choice, she’s too good,” he says, smiling and turning the volume down.

“Then there’s Dani. Dani is the one that is the most like me. Quiet and moody. She likes to tinker with things, too, and she’s a better mechanic than I am. It’s scary sometimes how good she is.”

I turn my body to face him, giving Saint my full attention as he shares bits of himself with me. I still don’t know why, because I’ve been nothing but a brat to him since we met. He stops talking and I nudge him to continue. “Go on, I’m missing two more, right?”

“Right,” he replies. “Isabella is the next one. We called her Isa growing up, but nowadays she goes by Izzy. She’s… well, she’s something.” Saint shakes his head and laughs, like he thought about something he shouldn’t share. He laughs again to himself before speaking, “Let’s just say she’s a firecracker, and you two would get along well.”

He stops talking again, but this time his features turn somber. His shoulders tense and his hand closes into tight fists.

“You said one was in heaven. You don’t have to talk about your angel sister, Saint. I know it’s hard.” I place my hand on top of his and he closes his fingers over mine, holding onto me tightly.

“Actually, it’s harder to not talk about her. Ana was everything someone should be. Kind, sweet, smart, beautiful, and good overall. The friend everyone wishes they had, the sister I always wanted, and the best daughter in the world.” He lets out a breath and tightens his hold on my hand. “She would be twenty now and I wonder all the time what she would be like. She wanted to be a teacher and I can imagine how many children’s lives she would’ve touched with her light.”

I want to ask what happened to her but not everyone morbidly jokes about the death of their loved ones like me, so I stay quiet and adjust my body on the seat. I also want to stay away from talking about dead girls named Ana because it’s just our luck that the girls we both lost shared the same name. He lets go of my hand, gripping the steering wheel.

A heartbeat later Saint says, “She was born with the sun in her heart and she shone so brightly, she burned. I just hope that wherever she is, she’s bringing all her goodness with her. In the meantime, we miss her down here.” He stretches and opens his glove box, pulling out a small tin box and handing it to me.

Opening it carefully, I find polaroid pictures. The first one is a little boy holding a tiny baby with the biggest smile on his face and two dimples framing it. The next one is the same little boy at the same age, with a little girl next to him, old enough to sit but probably not walk, and another chubby baby on his lap. I smile looking at baby Saint, with his huge smile and baby sisters next to him. He looks like the best big brother.

The next picture is him again but older. This time, two little girls are next to him; one draped over him and the other one screaming as a little baby lies on his lap. He’s still smiling in this one but definitely less brightly than the other ones. He looks tired and he has little dark circles under his eyes. He couldn’t be more than ten or eleven in this picture and he looks worn-out like an adult.

There’s a time jump between this picture and the next one because, suddenly, Saint is not a little boy anymore and there are four little girls around him. Everyone smiles at the camera, except for the youngest one who is sucking on her thumb with big bright eyes.

“Don’t be going soft on me now,” he says with a smirk.

“Shut up, you idiot,” I reply, pushing his arm.

I keep going through the pictures, watching Saint grow old under my fingertips. Growing older, wiser, more handsome, and somehow sadder. The girls are also growing up, prettier and wilder. I’m drawn to the one with dark hair and dark eyes, and chubby cheeks that grew to be slim and gorgeous. Her hair gets shorter with every picture, as opposed to the others whose hair got longer.

The setting changes drastically, from a living room to a bedroom, and that same short-haired girl lying on a bed. Still smiling, but not reaching her eyes. Saint sits by her, his eyes on her, not on the camera.

I lift the picture to him and without even looking he says, “Ana.”

I nod. I don’t want to pry anymore but there’s only one picture left. Scared to look at it, I still grab it and see the most beautiful smile I’ve seen on this man. He’s glowing. They’re on the beach, Ana is in a wheelchair, wrapped in a blanket smiling. Her lips look grayish but it’s a polaroid after all. The other girls are hugging her, all smiling and happy. Saint stands tall above them all, hovering over them. Protective. Proud.

I move my fingers over the picture, caressing this moment among these siblings and feeling a ping in my heart that tells me this was the last time they were all happy together. I would know, because I have my own version of this picture, but I don’t keep it close to me. No, I keep it as far away as possible. Out of sight, out of mind. Nothing to remind me that I had happiness once, that I’m not allowed to welcome it again without consequences.

1 ? Tranquila: Easy or relax

2 ? Pira?ita: Little piranha