Page 4 of Chasing Home

She doesn’t give me the chance.

As if struck by a realization of something, she drops her hand from my arm and yanks her hand from mine. I freeze, taking a gutted step backward as she twirls and grabs a long-strapped black purse from the booth and loops it over her head.

My throat is dry as I blurt out, “Don’t go.”

“You got your dance, but I’m not here for fun.” She doesn’t look at me when she adds, “Bye, Johnny.”

By the time I get myself to move, she’s already shoving open the door and all but leaping into the night. I stare at the door and lean back against the table behind me, hoping to fuck it will support my weight because my legs are doing a piss-poor job of it.

I should chase after her, right? Fuck, no, I shouldn’t. In the few minutes I just spent with her, something tells me she wouldn’t appreciate me following after her like a desperate fool.

No, for now, I’ll let her run. But I’m far from done getting to know Aurora, and I intend on learning all I can.

Soon.

It would be a crime against the universe not to, after all.

1

AURORA

1 MONTH LATER

Will there ever come a time where I don’t skip breakfast and then complain an hour into my shift about how hungry I am? Probably not.

My stomach growls as I recline in my wheely chair and spread my legs out beneath the front desk, letting my eyes drift shut. There are snacks in the back room, but I’m too dog-tired to get up and search for them.

Anna, my boss, offered to pick me up something for lunch on her way back to work, and like an utter idiot, I turned her down the way I have since she offered me a job here six weeks ago. It’s only a matter of time before she stops asking altogether. The only reason she hasn’t yet is that she’s too nice of a person. A bit of a momma bear, honestly.

Curling my body forward, I scoot toward the desk and plonk my forehead against it. My nails are blunt and uneven from my new habit of biting them raw, and as I rub them back and forth over my knee, they scratch at my skin. A manicure would be a good choice. That or some pants instead of the same pair of denim shorts I’ve worn every day in this disgusting summer heat.

I must have missed the memo where Alberta’s supposed to get hotter than Satan’s asshole in July because I don’t remember it ever being this hot in the past thirty years of my life. Yeah, it gets hot in the summer, but I feel like every summer, the top temperature climbs a few degrees. By the time I’m fifty, I’ll probably be better off living in Australia.

When I packed my suitcase and booked ass to Cherry Peak, I wasn’t thinking of summer. I packed with only one thing on my mind: finding answers. My lack of common sense is why I settled into my shitty rental with a suitcase full of socks, a handful of pairs of sweatpants, one single bra and pair of shorts, and too many baggy crewnecks. I clearly reached for my comfort clothes and not much else.

Go fucking figure.

A buzzing sounds from the desk, and I groan, slapping a hand over my phone before looking up at the screen.

Mom: Good morning, Aura. Can you let me know you’re alive so I don’t have to keep thinking the worst?

I swipe the message away and go to set my phone down when another pops up.

Mom: I love you, you know? Always. I’m sorry.

Dropping the phone to the desk harder than necessary, I contemplate whether or not it’s acceptable to block your mother’s phone number from your phone. If nobody knew that I had but me . . . no. Not yet.

Happy, high-pitched chatter sounds from outside the salon before two women swing open the door, making the bell above it chime. The first woman, the one with short brown hair that’s been twisted into a bun and threaded through the back hole of an old baseball cap, is Anna, the owner of Thistle and Thorn, the only hair salon in town. She’s beautiful, with a wide, comforting grin that never seems to waver, eyes the colour of hazelnuts, and a tiny nose that should look out of place on her features but fits her perfectly.

Her entire personality is the complete opposite of the woman who follows her inside. Bryce, one of her best friends, is the sharp to her smooth. The cool to her warm. While intimidating as fuck, she’s also my favourite of the women I’ve gotten to know in Cherry Peak.

Bryce’s glacial-blue eyes land on me once she’s finished taking in the empty salon. She heads right for the desk before leaning two tattooed arms against the edge. They’re bare, her lack of suffocating, hideous work clothes obvious as I get a full view of the piece of artwork on her left forearm.

Just like the first time I saw it, I can’t help but stare, tracing my eyes over the scene and the skill that was used to create such a thing of beauty. Whoever the artist was that created the piece is insanely talented.

There’s a story in the image, from the densely forested background, the cherry blossom tree that stands front and centre, to the cobra wrapped around one extended branch with its collar flared and fangs out. A leopard pokes its head around the trunk of the tree, lips curled and one thick paw set in front as if it’s contemplating leaping at the viewer. The storm clouds above the trees add something to the tattoo that ties it all together in a beautiful way.

Usually, the high-collared button-up blouse that she wears for work hides nearly all of her tattoos, so it’s a bit shocking to see her in a jean skirt that only reaches the middle of her thighs and a cropped band tee.

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