Thursday, September 06, 2012

Turn pike

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.


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