Page 3 of God of War

I stop. My palms are sweaty against the straps of my backpack. My eyes stay glued to my shoes.

“Fine. Whatever.”

That metal noise starts up again. I clench my eyes shut for a long moment, then take a deep breath. When I look up and across the street, I’m surprised. I don’t know what I expected to see exactly. Something scarier than… this.

The angry man sits cross-legged in his driveway beside a big, black motorbike. He has tools spread out all around him, and his brow is furrowed in concentration as he twists something on the bike with a wrench-kinda-thing.

He doesn’t look angry now. He doesn’t even really look like a man. He’s not as old as Daddy, or Nancy’s dad, or even my cousin Tyler, who just had a baby and is always complaining that he doesn’t have time for video games anymore.

There’s a tug in my belly, like a little thread coiling up, and it pulls me off the pavement and across the street. I stop at the end of the driveway.

The man’s eyes flick to me, then back to the bike. He puts down the wrench and wipes a hand over his face, leaving a grease mark on his forehead. His hair, a messy sort of dirty blond, falls back into place, covering the dark smudge.

He grabs another tool, but before he touches the bike, he stretches out one long leg and hisses. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt this time, both black, and the tattoos on his arms shine with sweat. The tattoos are of weird things — words and symbols, a boat anchor, a bird with a knife in its beak.

“I hate that,” I say suddenly.

The guy’s eyes flick up to me. I’m too far away to tell what color they are. For some reason, I really want to know. I edge a little closer.

“What?” he replies, still frowning. I think he’s annoyed. But he talked to me first. He yelled at me from across the street.

“When my leg or arm or whatever falls asleep,” I say. “And then you get pins and needles.”

He grunts, which is a pretty rude reply. He drops the tool and starts thumping at his leg with a closed fist, like he’s trying to wake it up.

“Got a fix for me, kid?”

I shrug. “Cut it off.”

The harsh slash of his mouth cracks, widening into a grin. “Yeah. Sure.”

The guy props his leg up, then heaves himself to standing. He bounces a couple of times on the balls of his feet, jiggling around the blood. He’s tall. Even taller than in the dark.

He doesn’t come any closer. Instead, he walks to the front porch and picks up a bottle of something. Soda.

For some reason, I’m glad it’s not beer.

“Did I hurt you?”

My eyes snap from the bottle hovering at his lips.

“Huh?”

He walks back to me and for a second I think he’s going to keep coming until he’s right in front of me — looming over me like he did in the shadows — but he doesn’t. He stops at the bike and takes another drink.

“Last night,” he says. He wipes his mouth with the back of his tattooed hand. “You just surprised me. I thought you were trying to break in or some shit.”

I shake my head and scuff the toe of my sneaker on the ground. “It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Lie. It still burns.

“So I did hurt you?” His eyebrows shoot up. “Fuck.”

I’ve never heard an adult swear so much not on accident and he’s cursed twice. My cheeks heat like I’m going to get in trouble, just for being within earshot.

“Where’s the old lady?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.

“You were looking for her, huh?”

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