Devil on Your Back (16 page)

A solid sixteen hours pass before I can finally tell my son why Mom isn’t coming home again.

I WAIT
patiently in the driver’s seat of the old pick-up as Vince punches the code into the gate. His Triumph was due for a service, so I suggested he leave it with Fingers, the club mechanic, while we head over. Besides, if he wants to bring anything sizeable back with us it’ll be easier in the pick-up than balancing it on the back of his bike.

The steel gate slides open and Vince returns to the passenger seat, directing me through the rows of lock-ups as we proceed. Towards the back he asks me to stop outside a narrow unit, covered in dust and obviously not very well used.

“I haven’t been here in a while,” he mumbles, staring out the window of the pick-up. “Don’t usually have much reason to.”

Reaching over, I give him a pat on the leg and smile. “C’mon then.”

He’s still sitting when I round the hood of the truck to his side. I knock on the window with the back of my knuckles, and nod toward the unit. He opens the door, his gaze averted, and gets out.

“Fine,” he mutters.

“If you really don’t want to be here that much, then the sooner you start, the sooner it’s over.”

“True,” he says flatly, producing a key for the padlock.

Vince opens the unit up, the steel door protesting its use. He fumbles around on the right-hand wall for a second before a dim light bulb in the center of the narrow space comes to life. I peer over his shoulder and scan the contents of the unit: a few boxes along the rear, an old BMX, and a well-used tool chest.

His shoulders heave with a heavy breath, and he stands stationary for a moment, just looking it all over. Unsure what to do, I move to the side of the entrance as he heads for the boxes. I lean against the sheet-iron wall and watch the traffic on the far-away road go by like ants in procession. The rustling of cardboard, and a few not-so-quiet grumbles come from behind me. Hopefully he finds what he’s after, and whatever the hell it is lifts his mood.

My gut says it won’t.

“Always the last place you fuckin’ look,” he mutters.

I turn around and my chest constricts at the various piles of photos he has stacked on top of the unopened box beside the one he’s working in. Large, framed pictures of a woman in a white dress, the same woman holding a small child, a close up of a smiling face. It’s all her.

And she’s
beautiful
.

How the hell am I supposed to compete with that?

Overwhelmed, I step outside, gasping for fresh air. Talking about it is one thing, but seeing the evidence of what he had is too much—too personal. I may as well have been lurking around in their home for how I felt just then. This is
his
thing to do—I never should have asked to come.

“Everything okay?” Vince asks a short while later.

“Yeah,” I reply, dropping the hood of the pick-up. “Thought I may as well check out the fluids while I waited.”

“Right after you’ve run it?” he asks, eying me suspiciously.

Dammit.
“I always forget to do it before I start her up.” I laugh . . . awkwardly.

He nods, clearly unconvinced, and lifts the items in his hand. “Got what I needed.”

“Good stuff,” I say, and jump into the truck.

He locks the unit and gets in opposite, still eyeing me.

“What?” I ask.

“Are you going to tell me what the real issue was?”

“Nothing,” I say a little too brightly, and start the pick-up. “Nothing at all.”

“When a woman says it’s nothing, it’s always something.”

I sigh and steer us out of the complex. The gate opens automatically to exit, and I save answering him until we’re steadily cruising on the road, heading back to the clubhouse.

“I felt out of place.”

“Why?”

“It was personal, Vince. Those were your things, your memories—not mine.”

He blows out a sharp breath and twists in the seat to face me as I drive. “You have a photo of Mike on your dresser.”

“So?” I retort sharply.

“So, I have no problem with it.”

“Why should you?”
My God, Sonya. You walked into that one.

The silence is deafening.

“Fine!” I holler, my voice ricocheting around the closed cab. “I see your point. It doesn’t change how I felt, though.”

The silence is unnerving.

“Say something, Vince,” I plead quietly.

The silence is final.

We continue along the road, divided by our stubbornness. I have no doubt at all that he’s exactly like I am at this moment—wanting to speak, to sort it out, but equally as frustrated at the thought that we even have to.
This
is why I was happy to keep to myself for so long. This shit right here. Sometimes it’s just easier to go without, to save having to put up with the struggle to keep what you have.

Mike wouldn’t have made . . .
stop it, Sonya.
I’m doing it, even in my thoughts; I’m comparing him to Mike.

“Vince . . .”

Nothing. He stares out the window at the houses that whizz by, only straightening his position in the seat when we turn down a quiet street near the club.

Aggravated, I pull the truck sharply to the side of the road and switch it off.

He crosses his arms.

“I’m sorry I did that, okay? I’m sorry I gave you such a double standard.”

He sighs and faces me. “This is what I was talkin’ about—whether you can live with a ghost or not.”

“And I understand that. I feel like shit . . . honestly.”

“What else was the issue? ’Cause you don’t look like it was just that you felt like you were impeding.”

I jerk my head to the side and shrug. “It’s nothing.”

“Again with the nothing being something,” he growls.

I toss my hands in the air. “She’s beautiful, okay? So damn beautiful. How could I ever compare?”

“Correction: she
was
beautiful. And who the fuck says you’re being compared?”

“I am,” I mumble, wringing my hands in my lap.

“Excuse me?” He leans forward, baiting me to admit he’s right.

“I am,” I say louder. “
I’m
comparing myself to her, not you.”

“Why do that?” he asks. “What’s the point?”

“Because I’m worried that if I’m not enough you’ll walk away and leave me worse off than I was to start with.”

Vince lets out a ‘hmph’ and turns to stare straight out the windscreen again. “What is it with woman and their need to push shit to its fuckin’ limit, just to prove a point?”

“What do you mean by that?” I ask.

“I mean,” he says, dragging out the words, “why is it that you’re
so
fuckin’ convinced I’ll decide you’re not enough, that you’ll do what you can to put the thought in my head
for
me just so you feel vindicated in your paranoia? Can’t you fuckin’ be happy that we’re trying this?” He waves his hand between us. “Can’t you just enjoy the ride?”

“I’m sorry if I seem to have more interest than you in making this long-term,” I bite back. “I didn’t realize this was just a ‘ride’ to be enjoyed.”

“Woman, I’m at the point in my life where I can’t be bothered with this mind fucking. I can’t be stroking your ego every ten minutes to make sure you aren’t imaginin’ shit that’s not even there.”

“God forbid you had to show you cared,” I snap.

He lashes out, kicking the underside of the dashboard.

“Hey!” I reach across to check for damage.

“Fuck’s sake, Sonya. I thought you were different . . . better, but you’re just the same—insecure and needy.” He snatches at the door handle, finally opening it and getting out in a huff. “I’ll walk.”

The door slams, and I sit in shock as he trudges up the side of the road.
Asshole.
How dare he compare me to the other women he’s had? I bet the bastard hasn’t had anything other than club pussy, and here he is, comparing me to them. I’m not needy,
am I
?

My lips set in a firm line and, angry enough to lay a path of rubber in my wake, I turn the pick-up over and slam my foot down on the gas. The tires kick up shingle off the side of the road as I speed toward his current position. I throw the truck into a skid and come to a stop in front of him, dirt kicking up into his face.

Fucker.

He smirks.

And walks around me.

Game isn’t over yet.

I chuck the shifter into reverse, skid off the dirt, and fishtail as I straighten out. Again, I cut him off.

He smiles.

And walks around the pick-up again.

My temper is fuming, the steam damn near visible as it erupts from me in waves of frustration. I glare out the driver’s side window at him as he struts down the road, stubborn as they come. No way is he winning this.

I grin, knowing he underestimated my driving skills.

Because Mike didn’t pick me for just my good looks when I was younger—he met me at a derby night at the local dirt track. I grew up with an overbearing brother who taught his little sister everything there is to know about how to drive, and drive well enough to be the last car rolling. And that impressed a no-holds barred man from the wrong side of the tracks enough to have him ask me out on a date.

Vince heads for the empty section on the final corner before the clubhouse, and I reverse out from my position again. If I’m going to do this, I need to plan it right. He heads farther off the street, cutting the corner over the dirt as predicted. I cruise up beside him, and block his path . . . only this time I don’t stop rolling. I circle him as he walks, coming in for a second pass when he hesitates.

His face is a storm, and I take my turn to smirk before speeding up a little.

He tries to start again, but by now I’m circling him at a fair click on the dirt. Before long, the tail end slips out and I’m penning him inside of my turning circle as I do donuts around him. Dust plumes up from my wheels, and when I can no longer see enough of him to ensure he stays put, I bring the pick-up to a halt.

The cloud settles, and he’s glaring at me, arms crossed. Leaving the truck idling, I grab his pile of keepsakes from their position spread across the passenger seat, step out and walk up to him.

“You going to stop walking and listen yet?” I hold out his things. “And you forgot these.”

He tries to suppress his smile, but fails miserably as he takes the photographs and papers from me. “Can’t say I’ve ever had anyone do that to grab my attention before now.”

“I’d hope not.” I smirk. “Can’t say I’ve ever done it before, either.”

“Bit dangerous.”

“Hardly.” I flick my hair out of my face, and mirror his defiant stance. “I had my eye on you the whole time.”

“I bet you did.” His gaze lights with promise, and my heart quickens.

“Let’s get something straight,” I say, tipping my chin up. “I am not needy. I don’t need anyone to get by, and I sure as fuck don’t need you telling me that I’m being silly comparing myself to Julia.” He flinches at her name. “I saw the photos, Vince. I’d be stupid not to feel threatened, especially when I know for a fact you’re still in love with her.”

He watches me for a beat before answering. “Is that how I should feel? Threatened by Mike?”

“No,” I whine, screwing my face up and shaking my head. “Of course not.”

“Then tell me,” he challenges, “if you know in your heart you can separate the two, why the fuck do you think the way I feel about you should be any different?”

I shrug.

“Exactly. Julia’s
dead
, Sonya. Yes, I’ll always love her, but you’re the living, breathing woman who has my interest now.”

I drop my gaze to the dirt, feeling well and truly put in my place.

“Tell me,” he says, “are you the same? Do I have your interest?”

I nod, and raise my eyes to meet his. “Very much so.”

“Then why are we arguing?”

Again, I shrug.

“This is how things are going to go down from here, and if you’ve got problems with it, you can walk away right now. Got it?”