Page 39 of The Heir
“Come on, the cop is probably gone,” I encouraged, before turning toward the bike.
He grabbed my wrist and jerked me toward him so fast I had to place my palm to his chest so as not to roughly collide with him.
“Hey,” he hissed, “Don’t do this— Whateverthisis, alright. If you’re angry about your dad–”
“I’m not,” I blurted.
“If you’re angry about your father,” he spoke over me, “I don’t blame you. My mom says Easy is a fucking coke addict. She carried on about him snorting blow and raging out, but he is my uncle. He’s the closest relative I have to my father. I give a fuck about him. I love him despite whatever shortcomings he may have, and I shouldn’t have said that about Makaveli. Not to you. Two things can be true at once, but– He’s still your father.”
I laughed, unable to help myself. Hot tears started to spill again.
“Marchella, please,” he whispered, sliding his hand over my cheek to chase away a tear. “Let me be your anchor.”
I closed my eyes, but it didn’t stop the tears from spilling or my breath from catching. I’d heard Trista say that Easy’s nephew was special in spirit. Sensitive or whatever the fuck she claimed when she told those type of stories, but I never believed it.
“Shit, I misspoke again or something…” he whispered almost under his breath.
“My mother was my anchor,” I spoke up, before reaching down to raise my pant leg, on the side he hadn’t freed.
It was the first tattoo I’d ever gotten. An anchor with an infinity symbol. “It represents my mother, forever watching over me.”
He reached down and ran his fingertips over the tattoo.
“Let her rest and I’ll do it.”
I smiled and watched as he took my hand in his. I stroked it with my fingers and gave it a squeeze.
“There are a lot of—” I gave a slow nod. “It’s late, and it’s a long story.”
“There is nothing that says you have to tell it tonight, I ain’t fucking going anywhere, Marchella.”
I hugged him and slowly let him lead me to the bike. The ride to Grandpa Winehopper’s farm was a short one, but it was enough time for me to clear my mind.
This was what Aunt Trista was talking about.
This was my chance to have my own life. A life that wasn’t dependent upon disciple history and secrets. Yes, we had the same disciple history to an extent, but he knew how to expand beyond all of that. He went to college, and to another state, and he had a sense of normalcy about him that he was willing to share with me.
And I so desperately wanted normal and happiness.
I pointed to the property on the right and he nodded. Blaze slowed to negotiate the turn and rolled to a stop in the center of my grandparent’s large driveway. All the lights were off inside, and he’d killed the engine and coasted it once he noticed, so I doubted anyone would stir.
I ran my hands over his back, patting his shoulder blades before I leaned in and tried to find my voice. I was terrible with apologies. Not because I didn’t feel guilty, they just weren’t well received in my family.
“I’m sorry about–”
“It’s fine. We’re good.” He rubbed my thigh and gave it a squeeze, looking over his shoulder at me with that smile I loved.
“No, I– Sometimes I hold so much in, and when it comes out, it just– All the emotion just rushes out and flows down my cheeks sometimes,” I stammered, only to abruptly shut up when the front door was yanked open.
The porch light flipped on, and even though it was the opposite thigh Blaze was clutching, I still swatted his hand away.
“My granddad is a preacher,” I hissed.
I meant it as a warning, but Blaze instantly stirred, sitting up straight and proper. He held out his hand and my grandpa stood on the top step with his neck craned like some kind of goose, watching while I took Blaze’s offering and slid off the motorcycle.
He hurried down the steps, raising his hand in a halting gesture, even as he called out a question that he already knew the answer to, “Marchella? Marchella, honey, is that you?”
Blaze jerked the wheel the opposite way and turned on the headlight, illuminating the area a bit.