Page 58 of Proof Of Life
Fuck, yeah!
Today is a good day. I feel alive. I feel like I’m living my life instead of merely surviving it. Old-school alternative is playing on the radio, songs that take me way back, music that feels good. With the windows rolled down, the fresh mountain air is blowing through my sweaty hair and I can feel the sun warming my face. I’ve got my best friend beside me, blood pumping through my veins from the run, and West is smiling. We’re dreaming together and making plans for our future, and we’re getting excited about our lives again.
Today is a great fucking day.
“I feel the need. The need…” When I glance at West, he’s rolling his eyes, already knowing what I’m going to say. “For speed,” we say in unison as my foot hits the gas harder. We’re tearing down the remote highway at nearly a hundred miles an hour, and I turn the radio all the way up, but it barely drowns out my howl. West grins and joins in, screaming at the top of his lungs out the window as the tires eat up the road.
For the first time in what feels like forever, we don’t have a care in the world.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Stiles shrieks. “Your bike couldn’t keep up with mine if you added nitrous to it. In fact, next time I'm at the toy store, I’ll pick up some training wheels for your bike.”
“You’re full of shit,” McCormick seethes, “the only reason you beat me is because you took off from the line before the light turned green!”
“Keep telling yourself that, Carrot Stick. In the meantime, I’ve got a bumper sticker I was going to give my nephew, but you can have it. It says, ‘Born To Be Mild’. Get it?” he asks, smacking McCormick on the back.
McCormick glares at Stiles as I smother my laughter, but West isn’t even trying to hide his.
“Looks like the boys are feeling rowdy today. This should be a great meeting,” West teases as we take our seats. He reaches into his backpack and pulls out his pink yarn and needles, and the ribbing from the peanut gallery starts up again with catcalls and whistles.
“Look at those sticks! Sleek, baby, sleek.”
“Real men wear pink, Wardell. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
“Yeah, yeah,” West says with a grin, brushing it off. “Laugh it up. But don’t be jealous if my stitches are better than yours. I’ve got skills, apparently.”
“Thanks to Betty Beasley,” McCormick says slyly. “No one’s got tighter stitches than Betty.”
“You’re fucking sick,” Jax mumbles. “Nobody wants to hear about Betty’s tight stitches.”
Stiles reaches into his black leather backpack and pulls out a canvas tote bag. He crosses the circle and hands it to me. “This is for the both of you, from the Bitches. You took the first step by activating the phone tree and reaching out, and now you’re officially one of us. Welcome to the club.”
Everyone’s clapping as I investigate what’s inside the bag—five different kinds of needles, four skeins of yarn in different colors, and some handwritten instructions that I assume are stitch techniques. On the outside of the bag is a logo someone created that says ‘Bitches With Stitches, healing hearts one stitch at a time.’
Gratitude and a sense of belonging make my chest feel tight. “Thanks guys.” That’s about all I can manage. I don’t want to risk speaking while my voice might crack with emotion.
A man I haven’t seen before breezes in and takes the empty seat between West and McCormick, and I’m immediately on guard. This guy isn’t dressed like the other Bitches, in black leather ALR motorcycle gear. In fact, there’s nothing about him similar to any of us. He’s got to be at least 6'4”, jacked with muscle, shoulder length dark hair, and eyes so intense I feel like I need to look away. Fuck, are they golden? They are! His eyes are fucking golden. Although I’m new to checking out guys, I have to say this one is definitely hot, but he’s giving off a disinterested don’t-fuck-with-me vibe.
Riggs walks in right behind him and takes his usual seat. “Pharo! Long time no see, my man. How have you been?”
Pharo? Get the fuck out of here.
Even his name is fucking hot. The more I stare at him, the more wary I become, and I’m pissed that he’s sitting next to West. I need him to move the fuck over. Way over. Like, to the next classroom.
“Hanging in there, Riggs. Just got back stateside and thought I’d check in.”
“Pharo,” McCormick says, “this is Wardell and Aguilar, our two newest Bitches.” Pharo can’t be bothered with pleasantries. I guess he’s too cool for that. Instead, he dips his head in acknowledgment. But McCormick continues, picking up the slack in the conversation. “Pharo’s been stationed in Egypt,” he explains.
Egypt? West and I share a disbelieving look. What kind of military operations is the US running in Egypt?
“So, you’re still active?” I ask.
“Reserves.”
That’s all he’s going to give me, I guess. And then Jax scrapes the legs of his chair across the linoleum as he springs to his feet.
“Where are you going?” Stiles asks.
“It’s too fucking crowded in here,” Jax mumbles with a pointed look at Pharo.