Milepost numbers increased as I rode north on a bike I’d stolen from a kid too drunk to have survived the ride home. He’d consider me an immoral asshole who’d taken his substitute girlfriend. It was that kind of douche-rocket.
He might not be my blood, but I had
to shield Uncle Jim from the worst of the fallout.
My palm throbbed as I cataloged the
many ways Nate tries to cripple me. I always take the hit. My inevitable
recovery infuriates him, but serves its purpose. He’s almost used to it.
Someday, he’s going to beg for my magic.