Page 48 of Rough

“I don’t know how else to describe it.”

A ride on the bike did a lot of things for me, but making me feel clean wasn’t one of them.

“Always made me feel free,” I said. “When I twist that throttle, I want to scream freedom!”

“Maybe that’s what I feel.”

She leaned back against the rest. Within a few minutes, we were parked beside her car.

I switched off the bike, put down the kickstand, and glanced at the apartment complex beside where we were parked.

“This is where you live?”

“This is it.”

“I’ll walk you to the door.” I said, hoping I’d figure out a way to get inside without pissing her off.

She got off the bike, pulled off her helmet, and let her hair down. “I’ll be fine.”

“No, really,” I said. “I’ll walk you up.”

She handed me the helmet. “Okay.”

We walked side by side, weaving through the maze of buildings, until we reached one in the rear of the complex. As she stepped onto the sidewalk, I glanced over my shoulder and looked out toward the street. Her car was half a block away.

“Do you always park way out there?”

“Yeah.”

“Why? There’s parking right here.”

“I like the walk in the morning. It gives me a little time to think.”

“So, you park way the fuck out there?”

“Uh huh.”

“All the time, or sometimes?”

“All the time.”

At first, it seemed odd. After a few steps up the walk, I decided to respect her for being unique.

After we’d walked half the length of the building, I saw a guy passed out against the side of the building. Before I had a chance to point him out, Tegan rushed to his side.

“Marcus!” She leaned over and tapped him on the arm. “Marcus!”

He opened his eyes, glanced at her and then at me. After he rubbed his eyes and messed up his short brown hair, he stood up and put one of his hands against his hip.

At five foot five, and a hundred pounds at best, he was tiny. Dressed in bright blue skin-tight jeans, an equally tight orange tee shirt, gray sneakers, and a powder blue plastic watch, he looked like he belonged in an Easter basket.

He looked right at me. His eyes dropped to my feet, slowly rose along my six-foot-eight frame, and then stopped when they met mine.

“You must be Pee Bee. Your reputation precedes you. By a few weeks. Or fifteen miles. Take your pick.” He looked at my feet. “I like the boots. Are they Docs?”

“Huh?”

“Docs. Doc Martens.” He pointed at my feet. “Your boots.”