Dear Life(88)

Okay. That should be good. Baking and latch hook legacy . . .

But what about my newfound talent?

Daisy: And also, if my grave can say ‘good at driving motorcycles’ I would appreciate it.

Baking, latch hook, motorcycles. I think that just about covers it all. What a legacy . . .

Daisy: And I can recite the entire Vitameatavegamin episode from I Love Lucy. I would show you, but I’m dying tonight. Just know, I can nail it.

There. That’s all I have to say. My legacy will now live on forever.

At least I can rest easy in my helmet, knowing people will not just say: Daisy who? She lived with her grandma for twenty-one years and had no friends, no job, and no life experiences. No, they will be able to say, Daisy Beauregaurd: German-chocolate-cake-cookie master baker, latch hook goddess, motorcycle mama, and Vitameatavegamin vixen.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” man next to me leans in and asks.

Pulling away, I attractively respond, “Eh?”

“A boyfriend, do you have one?”

“What?” I giggle like a child. “A boyfriend? Well I do have a friend that’s a boy. Does that count? His name is Carter, and he’s moody and mean sometimes but other times he’s really nice, especially when he kisses me or sticks his finger inside of me.” I slam my hand over my mouth. What would possess me to say such a thing? I eye the Solo cup in front of me. Stupid butthole beer.

“Daisy, don’t talk to people about things like that,” Hollyn says next to me. Then she leans in closer and says, “Carter finger fucked you?”

“What?” My face burns bright red and my phone beeps in my hand with a message. “Gah, don’t tell him I said that. I don’t think we are talking about placement of our fingers with other people.”

“Did you stick your finger anywhere?” Hollyn asks, eyebrows raised.

“No! Where would I stick it? He doesn’t have a hole.”

“Men like a good prostate rub,” the man says next to me, clearly eavesdropping on our conversation.

“Ew!” Hollyn slaps the man in the arm from behind me, shooing him away. “Don’t whisper the word prostate in my friend’s ear.”

“Just offering up suggestions.” He shrugs.

With me in the middle, Hollyn gets in an argument with the man about not being a creep. I don’t listen because I’m too transfixed on seeing if my legacy will move on. I open the text and read it.

Carter: What are you talking about? Are you drunk?

Well, that wasn’t the confirmation I was looking for, so I text him back.

Daisy: I’m on a bike booze thing with Amanda and Hollyn. It’s dangerous, I can see myself plummeting to my death. I need to know that you will let my legacy move on.

Carter: You’re drunk. Is anyone taking care of you?

Ugh, why? Why does he always feel like he has to watch over me? I wasn’t asking for him to white knight it and rescue me from this death trap. I was asking him to help my legacy live on.

Daisy: I can take care of myself, thank you very much.

I puff my chest as I press send. Yes, I can take care of myself. I might have been under the watchful eye of Grams my entire life but since I’ve been living with Amanda, I’ve really been able to—

Beep Beep.

Another text from Carter.

Carter: Are you taking the LoDo route that passes by The Gin Mill?

Stalker.

Looking around, I see that in fact, we are passing The Gin Mill. How did he know?

Daisy: Are you stalking me? Where are you?

“Your friend likes me? Don’t you, sweetheart?” the man next to me asks.

“What?” I missed the entire conversation between the two of them.

“You like me,” he repeats.

I look him up and down. “You seem like you could be a nice fella, but you—”

“Ah, I am nice.” He runs his hand down my thigh. “And I can stick my fingers in places too, you know.”

Oh my gosh.

Before I can answer, as we are sitting at a red light, I’m pulled off my seat and my worst nightmare comes true. This is it. I’m meeting my death. The Chevy Malibu that’s been trailing behind us is finally going to run me over.

Screeching like I’m about to drown, I flail my body as strong arms secure around my waist.

“Settle down.” Carter’s deep voice fills my ear, sending chills up and down my spine.

“What are you doing?” Hollyn calls out, not happy with Carter.

“I suggest you turn back around and mind your own damn business, Hollyn,” Carter replies, menace now in his voice.

“Daisy is my business. She’s at a bachelorette party.”

“Not anymore.” Without another word, he carries me past The Gin Mill, down a dark alley. And here I thought death by Chevy Malibu was going to be my ending. Nope, this alley that smells like homeless man pee is going to be it.

“Where are we going? I don’t want to die in homeless man pee.”

“If you keep fidgeting, you’re going to face plant into the piss. Stay still.”

“You can’t just manhandle me like this.”

“I can when you’re drinking without me,” he counters and then finally sets me down on a familiar seat. His motorcycle.

Looking around, gaining my bearings, I finally make eye contact with him. He’s weary, unsure, but also determined. Wearing a white Henley, buttons undone, and a pair of black jeans, he exudes yumminess with his jet-black hair and penetrating eyes.