Page 13 of Dirty

“Home? Right now, I don’t have a home. When those assholes…” I took a deep breath and then sighed. “When I was at the 7-Eleven I was on my way to ask my mother if I could move in with her for a while. The guy I was living with smacked me for the last time, and I left after he went to work. All my shit’s in my car. Or, at least it was.”

“God damn.” He pushed his cup aside and shook his head. “You can’t catch a break.”

“A break?” I coughed out a laugh and struggled to keep from spitting coffee on him in the process. “I don’t need a break. Life throws us good days and bad days. Accepting the bad days as being part of life’s cycle allows me to appreciate the good ones that much more.”

“Hell of an attitude to have,” he said with a nod.

“Listen,” I said. “When we were on our way out of that shit-hole, it sure didn’t look to me like that prick with the tattoos on his face was going to hurt anyone else. He got what he had coming. That’s todays break, I guess.”

He nodded and looked away.

I took a sip of coffee. “Guy with a swastika, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said without looking at me.

I chuckled. “Okay.”

He looked at me. “So, what are we gonna do?”

“You ready to take me for that ride?”

He sighed and shifted his eyes toward the kitchen.

I finished my coffee and then shook my head. “Look, mister. You can think whatever you want, but they didn’t destroy me. I didn’t let them. I won’t give anyone that satisfaction. I’m just some girl who had an asshole for a boyfriend, and was at the right 7-ELEVEN at the wrong fucking time. It’s over, and regardless of whether you want to take credit for it or not, I have you to thank for it. I don’t want anything from you but to use your motorcycle to clear my head.”

He met my gaze.

“So, thank you,” I said. “Now. What about that ride?”

“After everything you’ve been through, I don’t know if taking you for a ride is a good idea. You need to go to your mom’s house and--”

I shot him a shitty glare. “I want a ride on your bike, not your cock.”

“You’ve got quite a mouth for a little girl,” he mumbled.

Little girl?

His words ground against the grain of my being like fingernails on the chalkboard of life.

I folded my arms across my chest and sharpened my glare. “Little girl? I’ll be twenty-one in two weeks, and I’ve lived through more shit than most women will endure in ten fucking lifetimes. I’ve been shitting in a bucket that I had to share with seven other girls for the last week, sleeping on a piss covered floor, and the only food I’ve had is a handful of granola bars and this cup of god damned coffee. Have you heard me complain once?”

He stared at me with wide eyes.

“Even fucking once?” I snarled.

His tugged at the bill of his hat, but didn’t respond.

“Well,” I snapped. “Have you?”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

“That’s because I’m not a little girl. And, I’m perfectly fucking capable of making my own decisions.” I stood up and shot him a sideways look. “Remember that.”

“Alright, then,” he breathed. “You ready to take that ride?”

***

We rode for the entire morning, and I found it to be so much more than a means of transportation. It was therapeutic.