That Girl (That Girl, #1)(10)

“What?” she asks, rounding the corner.

“It’s her birthday. She wanted a cupcake and a tattoo. I’m a f*cking gentleman, what can I say?” he says, shrugging.

“Goddamn, crazy kids,” she says, waving a towel.

I reach into my pocket with my good hand. “Thank you for everything. How much do I owe you for the cupcakes?”

“Cupcake,” she reminds me with a raised eyebrow.

“Right, cupcake,” I chuckle.

“Four dollars and fifty cents, dear. It was nice meeting you, Michelle.”

Alice holds her hand out for the cash, and nothing has made me prouder than handing it over to her.

“Thank you for everything,” I say again and lean in to give her a hug.

“Not many young women break the cycle like you’re doing. You should be very proud of yourself. Keep going.”

“I will,” I whisper more to myself than to Alice.

“Let’s hit the road,” Jeremiah says.

I follow him out the door, ready to walk down three blocks, take a left, walk to the yellow building, cross the street, and then walk a half block more. That’s what I’m ready for, but Jeremiah holds the door open to an old truck.

“Well, come on,” he says. “We have a long night ahead of us, girl.”

“What is this?” I ask, hesitating.

He scratches his head and blinks. “A truck?”

“Can’t we just walk?”

“No, I have a truck. You can wear your seatbelt.”

Nervously, I climb in, buckle up, and have a slight panic attack. Trying like hell to slow my breath before Jeremiah gets to his door, I realize this is the first time in over a year I have been inside a vehicle other than a Greyhound. What the hell am I doing, riding with a perfect stranger to get a tattoo, with a broken arm, no less? My mind races over the last couple of hours spent with him and Alice. Nice grandson, funny, a US solider, and a heartbroken husband. These thoughts seem to calm me down a little. But still, what in the hell am I doing?

“So, it’s your birthday, or was that a ruse to get free cupcakes?” Jeremiah breaks the silence as he fires the engine to life.

My birthday. Yes, it’s my birthday, that’s what I’m doing. Who cares about the rest? I’m going to live this day up with cupcakes and a tattoo, Oh, and a broken arm.

“No,” I reply, on the defense.

“I’m teasing you. Calm down.”

There’s something about his laugh I find easy to relax to. It reminds me of the time spent with Jazzy when we would both be off in our own little worlds working, and burst out with a random thought, action, or noise, and then both get sidetracked. Those times are my favorite to remember, and it’s ripping at my heart to feel even the slightest of those feelings with him on my birthday of all days.

“What kind of ink are you going to get?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your tattoo,” he says with a raised eyebrow.

“Some birds.”

“More specific?” he prods.

“No, I just want some birds floating and flying in their own direction. Nothing patterned or predictable.”

He nods. “I see. You have a wild heart.”

“Naw.” That’s not it at all. “So, what are you getting?”

“You’re really good at that, almost expert level, if I do say so myself.”

“At what?”

“Avoiding questions and changing the topic.”

“So, where’s this tattoo shop?”

“See, you did it again,” he points out.

“I know. I know. Trust me, I’m an expert at a lot of things one doesn’t brag about, and I’m not proud of it, but glad to leave it all behind.” I peer out the windshield, scanning the street. “Where’s the tattoo shop? I know of one on McMillan.”

He cringed. “Well, you can go there if you want herpes and gonorrhea. I’m taking you to a little classier place. Just about two more minutes, and we’ll be there.”

“Then by all means, drive,” I reply.

We travel in silence the rest of the way. His two minutes are more like fifteen, but it’s pretty scenery, and I keep mentally coaching myself everything is fine even though I’m off route. Jeremiah has been a complete gentleman this whole time. He turned up the radio a few miles back and is singing every single song that comes on. The man flat out sucks at singing, but bless him for giving it his all.

A catchy tune comes, and I find myself swaying to its beat and wanting more of it, from the words the artist is singing to the captivating rhythm.

The words leave my mouth before I even realize it. “What song is this?”

“Hall of Fame by The Script. It’s my favorite band.”

“I like it.”

I hear, ‘The world will never know my name… When every single piece of my past is officially so far behind, I can no longer haunt my inner core, that’s when I’ll know, I made it to my hall of fame…’

Listening to the words, I find myself tearing up. ‘I’ll reach it or die trying…’ I repeat it over and over in my head until I almost believe the mantra, and that’s when I feel the truck come to a stop and notice Jeremiah staring at me.