“You good?”
“Yeah. Okay. Good.”
“Now, I’m going to be right here to tell you what to do, and I’ll help you steer if you start running us off the road.”
I revved the gas pedal and then placed her foot on it and let her do the same. I could tell she was trying not to bail off of my lap—her body was practically vibrating with nerves—but she didn’t. She stayed, listening intently. I gave her basic instructions, and then I helped her ease onto the road, going about five miles per hour. She didn’t move her hands from two and ten o’clock, and I had to tug at the wheel slightly to straighten us out. And then we picked up speed, just a bit.
“How does that feel?”
“Like falling,” she whispered, her body rigid, her arms locked on the wheel.
“Relax. Falling is easier if you don’t fight it.”
“And driving?”
“That too. Everything is easier if you don’t fight it.”
“What if someone sees us?”
“Then I’ll tell you when to wave.”
She giggled and relaxed slightly against me. I kissed her temple where it rested against my cheek, and she was immediately stiff as a board once more.
Shit. I hadn’t thought. I’d just reacted.
“I would have patted you on the back, but your forehead was closer,” I drawled. “You’re doin’ it. You’re drivin’.”
“How fast are we going?” she said breathlessly. I hoped it was fear and not that kiss.
“Oh you’re flyin’, baby. Eight miles an hour. At this rate, we will reach Salt Lake in two days, my legs will be numb, and Henry will want a turn. Give it a little gas. Let’s see if we can push it up to ten.”
She pressed her foot down suddenly and we shot forward with a lurch.
“Whoa!” I cried, my arms shooting up to brace hers on the wheel. I saw Henry stir from the corner of my eye.
“Danika Patrick is the first female NASCAR driver to ever win a NASCAR Sprint Cup Series pole,” he said woodenly, before slumping back down in his seat. I spared him a quick glance, only to see his eyes were closed once more.
Millie obviously heard him and she hooted and pressed the gas pedal down a little harder.
“Henry just compared you to Danika Patrick. And he obviously isn’t alarmed that you’re driving because he’s already asleep again.”
“That’s because Henry knows I’m badass.”
“Oh yeah. Badass, Silly Millie. ‘Goin’ ninety miles an hour down a dead-end street,’” I sang a little Bob Dylan, enjoying myself thoroughly.
“And Henry trusts you,” Millie added, more to herself than to me, and I fought the urge not to kiss her temple again. I suddenly didn’t feel like laughing or singing anymore. I kind of felt like crying.
(End of Cassette)
Moses
THERE WAS SOMETHING about the smell of the gym. Tag loved it. He said it smelled better than fresh cut hay, a woman’s breasts, and steak combined. And those were his favorite things. Tag’s gym smelled like sweat, bleach, and a hint of fabric softener. I hadn’t decided why the fabric softener smell was so prominent until I realized that heat and sweat made the scent rise from clothing. It smelled wholesome—perspiration, soap and good intentions mixed with a healthy dose of testosterone and overconfidence. It smelled like Tag.
Tag kept music pumping all the time, but his choices were interesting—a little Merle Haggard, a little more Metallica, interspersed with songs by Michael Jackson, Neil Diamond, and The Killers, just to liven things up. He had eclectic tastes. That, and he had a short attention span.
Before Georgia had stepped onto that elevator eighteen months before and stepped back into my life, I’d lived in an apartment over the gym and worked out there with Tag almost every day. It was comfortable for me—the people, the atmosphere, all of it—and when I walked in the front doors, I was greeted on all sides with enthusiasm and obvious curiosity, which was fairly normal for me.
I spotted Axel working with a group of fighters and saw that Andy was padded up, taking punches in the octagon. As I debated who I should interrupt first, my name rippled through the gym, and they were both excusing themselves and approaching me without me having to make a move. Mikey followed on Axel’s heels, grabbing up his crutch and bearing down on me like he wanted answers too. Mikey rarely worked out with his prosthetic, and he was a one-legged wonder in more ways than one. A kid named Cory who’d been new to the team when I’d married Georgia wasn’t too far behind them.
The question in their eyes and the worry in their expressions had the tension I’d been trying to tamp down flaring once more. I didn’t have any answers. That’s why I was here.
“Any word?” Mikey asked, foregoing a greeting altogether. I noticed the people around us were waiting to hear what I had to say, and I didn’t want to discuss Millie and Tag in the middle of the gym. Axel caught my wary side glances and led the way to the little office I’d plundered two days before in an attempt to find Tag. Mikey, Cory, and Andy didn’t ask permission to come along, and I didn’t deny them. Maybe together we could figure something out. Axel didn’t wait for me to start the impromptu meeting. He pointed at the wall, at a schedule for the next month that was all filled out.
“That’s Tag’s writing. He must have come in here at some point last week and filled it in. Nobody saw him, and I didn’t think anything of it when we first talked, Moses. The schedule’s always updated, always written out a month in advance. It didn’t occur to me that he would have had to come in.” Axel shrugged. “It made me feel a little better. At least he’s not lying on the side of the road somewhere, you know?”