Page 27 of Bolt's Flame
“Tell me one thing you always enjoyed doin’ before James took your life away?”
She looked away, her hands trembling slightly as she ran them over her jeans. “I don’t know, there were so many,” she replied, looking toward the night sky as she thought about my question. “I suppose the one thing I missed so much to the point of bursting into a million pieces was going to Folly Beach. Before James, I would go some mornings and just walk in the sand, watching the sunrise.”
“I’ll take you,” I hurried to say, surprising myself with how much I wanted to do this. “Tomorrow mornin’. I’ll meet you in the kitchen at five.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The only sounds were the distant thrum of music from the clubhouse and the sounds of night creatures in the distance. I could feel the weight of the moment, the fragility of it, like one wrong move could break everything apart.
But I wasn’t going to make that wrong move. Not again.
“Okay,” Fiona whispered, her voice almost lost in the night.
I nodded, feeling the tension in my chest loosen just a little, but I once again noticed her fingers playing with her neck. “Fiona, where is the necklace you used to wear?”
“Necklace? How did you know I used to wear one?”
“Because you’re always twisting your fingers at your neck when you get nervous.”
She smiled sadly and replied, “It belonged to my mom and I had been wearing it since she died.” She stopped, taking a deep breath. “James destroyed it.”
I took my chain with the lock off and slipped it around her neck. “Here you can have mine. It won’t replace your necklace, but I want you to have it.”
She looked at me, and I saw the tears forming in her eyes. “Thank you, Bolt, for truly seeing me.”
I felt my chest tighten and wondered how this small woman could have such a hold on me in such a short time?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE RUMBLE OFthe bike echoed through the quietbackroads as we sped away from the clubhouse, heading toward Folly Beach. It was still dark out and his headlight cast long shadows across the road. The air was thick with the scent of morning, fresh and alive.
The roar of Bolt’s motorcycle sounded in my ear as my head lay against his back, the cool morning air whipping me. I clung to him, my arms wrapped tightly around his waist, the familiar vibration of the engine beneath us calming my nerves.
I leaned into the ride, closing my eyes for a moment and letting the wind carry away the lingering fears, the doubts that still clung to me.
As we rode, the landscape began to shift. The towering oak trees with their Spanish moss gave way to clusters of palmettos, and soon they were flanked by stretches of sand dunes and sea grass swaying gently in the ocean breeze as we approached the coast. I leaned even more into him, my arms tightening around his waist.
We reached the beach just as the sun began to rise, casting the world in shades of gold and pink. We parked the bike near a cluster of driftwood and sea oats. The beach was nearly empty this early, only a few scattered locals walking their dogs or fishing from the shore.
Cutting the engine, the sudden quiet felt almost surreal. I slid off the bike, took off the helmet and breathed in the salty air. The ocean stretched out before us, calm and endless, and for the first time in a long time, I felt... at peace.
Bolt climbed off his bike, his gaze fixed on the water as he tucked the helmets inside his saddlebag. We didn’t say anything at first, just started walking toward the shore, the soft sand crunching under our shoes. It was silent, except for the gentle sound of the waves lapping at the shore, and a weathered pier stretching out into the Atlantic, a solitary lookout against the brightening sky.
My eyes took in the scene I had hungered for over the last few years. The small waves rolled in, cresting with a froth of white foam before retreating back into the depths. Gulls circled overhead, their cries blending with the sound of the surf. The sun was higher now, casting a golden light across the water, making the water shimmer as if dusted with diamonds.
We walked side by side along the edge of the water and I kicked at the occasional seashell or piece of driftwood, laughing softly.
I could feel him watching me.
What was he seeing?
The way the ocean breeze tangled my hair, or the way the sunlight caught my eyes the same way it shone in his. For a moment, everything else faded away—the club, James, the weight of what Bolt had said that night—and all that was left was the quiet, timeless rhythm of the waves and the peace of the open shore.
I glanced at him, the silence between us comfortable but heavy with what was happening between us. It was obvious; he was carrying something inside him that he wasn’t sure how to say.
“I used to come here all the time,” I said softly, breaking the moment. “And when things got bad with James, I came back here, in my mind at least. It was like he couldn’t touch it, couldn’t steal it away.”
Bolt nodded, but didn’t respond right away. I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He wasn’t just listening—he was feeling something. Something heavy.
“How did it get that bad?” he finally asked, his voice rough. “When I was a kid, it was just all I ever knew, like I was born into it... and I suppose I was.”