Life After Taylah
Page 6

“I don’t want your fucking help,” he roars. “I don’t want your fucking pity. Stop treating me like you’re my fucking mother. I don’t have a fucking mother—she’s fucking dead!”
Tears well in my eyes and I struggle to breathe. The door opens behind me and I feel hands on my shoulders.
“Go, Avery.”
It’s Kelly.
I turn and rush from the room, my legs wobbling. I hurry through the crowd, pushing until I reach the front door. I burst out and run to my car. I dig through my pockets—dammit, I can’t find my keys. I shove both hands in, but they’re empty. I look down through the window, and scream in frustration when I see I’ve locked them in. I kick the door, angry. I look around helplessly for a moment, and then decide I’m too angry to go back inside. I have a spare set at home. I’ll just walk.
I turn and walk off down the street, swiping my eyes furiously to stop the tears sliding down my cheeks. I hear cars going past me, but I keep my face down. It’s going to take me hours to get home, but I don’t care. I just need a break—I need the walk. Liam hurt me, and the sad thing is I understand it. He’s so broken, the forgotten child, and no matter how hard I try he won’t let me in.
But I’ll keep trying.
“Need a lift?”
I squeal and spin around, shocked by the voice that has suddenly popped up behind me. I see Nate in a chunky truck that completely suits his bad boy persona. He’s leaning out the window, cigarette in his mouth, eyes fixed on me.
“No,” I mutter, turning around, heart pounding.
I begin walking again.
“Kelly told me you live at least a two-hour walk away. It’s late, people are out that you don’t need to come in contact with, and you’re a girl. It’s dangerous and stupid. Get in the car.”
“I’m fine,” I say, not looking.
I don’t know how I missed the rumble of his car before, but now it’s taunting me as he slowly drives behind me.
“Get in the car, or I’ll get out and throw you in,” he orders.
I stiffen and turn, glaring at him. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
“One.”
I gape. “Are you seriously counting at me? I’m not a child.”
“Two.”
“I don’t even know you.”
“Three.”
He swings the door open, leaving the truck running and takes two steps towards me. Then he leans down, presses his shoulder to my belly and lifts me into the air. I’m hanging over his shoulder as if I weigh no more than a sack of potatoes. I squeal and slap his back, but there’s no budging him. He walks me around to the passenger door and opens it, throwing me inside.
“You’re a . . .”
He slams the door in my face, leaving me gaping. He’s at the driver’s side in a few seconds, and when he’s in, he turns to me.
I splutter a few times before I manage to get my words out. “Do you always throw women into your car in such a manner?”
He grins at me. “If the situation calls for it.”
I narrow my eyes at him, and cross my arms. “I don’t need your help.”
“I’m aware of that,” he says, pulling the car out and driving south towards my suburb.
“Then why are you here?”
“Kelly was worried. I was the only person not drinking, so I offered.”
“I could be a murderer.”
He chuckles. “If you could get close to me with a knife, I’d murder myself.”
“Hey! That’s mean!” I protest, uncrossing my arms and placing them on my knees.
“You weigh no more than a child, you’re a girl, and you’re a delicate one at that. If you managed to take someone my size down, then I don’t deserve my manhood.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. “I’ll make it my challenge to destroy your manhood.”
He grins at me.
“Kelly gave me your street, but what’s your house number?”
I rattle it off and he nods, turning in the direction of my apartment.
“So, tell me, Dancer, what do you do aside from dance?”
“I work at the local library. It’s only part-time, but I enjoy it.”
“A dancer in a library. You should write a book.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t judge.”
“No judgment here, honey.”
Honey. I bite my lip. I wish Jacob would speak to me so . . . affectionately.
“What about you?” I ask, but I notice my voice has softened.
“I ride. It’s what I do. It’s my job; it’s my life.”
“You do nothing else?”
He shakes his head. “At this point, no.”
“And do you have a girlfriend?”
He gives me a sideways glance and a cheeky grin. “Is Dancer asking if I’m available?”
I shake my head furiously, putting my hands up. “No, I’m . . . I mean . . . I’m taken, anyway. I was just making conversation.”
He raises his brows, but answers with, “I’m married.”
Of course he’s married.
“You’re so young,” I say. “How long have you been married for?”
“Six years.”
“That’s nice,” I say, wondering what his wife looks like. She’s probably stunning.
“What about you? Married or just taken?”