Page 13 of Strelitzias in Spring

If I wasn’t so cautious with my driving, I’d be concerned that the forty-minute drive from Ink and Needle back to my apartment passed by too quickly. I was on autopilot as my mind raced through the past few months, mindless as I operated a vehicle on public roadways and could have caused harm not only to myself but also to others.

“Stupid,” I mutter, shifting into park and unfastening my seatbelt. Throwing my head against the headrest, I look up to the roof of my car and stare at the staples holding it together. Last year, the adhesive on the fabric lining my interior wore off, causing the gray fabric to fall like a curtain, a veil separating me and my outdated, run-down car from the rest of the world.

Specifically from safety checks at the DMV. To correct the issue myself and not bother my mother with my problems, I had Dylan help me staple the fabric with his dad’s staple gun. The memory is tainted, the afternoon spent with my former best friend now bittersweet, and his jokes and taunts cruel rather than funny.

“Asshole,” I whisper, filling the sedan with all the anger and resentment I’m feeling. I sought Wolf out to feel better, not ruminate in the memories that hang like a specter haunting its burial ground. Clearly, my voyage was a dismal failure.

Blinking back my tears, I swing my door open and reach behind the driver’s seat, grabbing my bags and spare books, before slamming it shut. Readjusting my things, I’m startled by the hand on my shoulder and the chuckle that follows my inadvertent jump.

“Rena, you could qualify for a pole dancing competition with that jump,” Ava’s voice sings out.

“You mean ‘pole vaulting.’” I smile at CeCe’s biting tone; her pregnancy, miscarriage, and relationship with her large Italian boyfriend, Dante, have done nothing to mellow out the aggression in her tone.

“Whatever. Now, Rena, tell us why you’re late.”

Whipping around, I stare at Ava and CeCe in confusion. “Late? We didn’t have any plans today.”

Ava waves her tattooed arm as though my comment is insignificant. “No, but you’re always in your apartment on Fridays by five. It’s five-thirty, and you’re just parking your cute little car. So tell me, where have you been”—she pauses, looking me over and biting down on her lip—“dressed like Inspector Gadget? Is that dirt in your hair?”

Only Ava would classify the rusted pile of metal as “cute,” but dammit, I must have gotten clay in my hair. “No, it’s clay. I was at that pottery class I told you about.”

CeCe’s eyes narrow, smelling the half-truth. “That class ended earlier this afternoon. Where did you go after that?”

“Just ran errands.” I clear my throat and swallow down the nerves that tickle my esophagus. “Anyway, what are you both doing here?” I avoid CeCe’s gaze, instead focusing on Ava’s face, lit in excitement.

“Movie night. Well, a competition night. There’s a new series ofThe Great British Bake Offthat just dropped, and I need to be surrounded by Paul Hollywood’s essence. So, let’s freaking go, I have cheeky bakers to watch.” Ava doesn’t wait for a response, just turns and walks toward the front of my building before stopping abruptly, large fabric bags swinging in her arms. “I brought ingredients to make roasted chicken and an orange olive oil cake. I’m not eating that bullshit cardboard pizza again.”

“She is such a food snob,” CeCe scoffs. Turning, I see that she’s shaking her head, though a small smile is on her face as she watches Ava charge across the parking lot and into my building. Her green eyes meet mine, and she sobers, one red eyebrow rising. “Now that it’s just us, what’s going on? Are you in trouble?”

“What? No, of course not.” I shake my head, emphasizing my rejection of her words. “I was just running errands like I said.”

CeCe doesn’t answer and continues to look at me with her unnerving stare. Like Jenga blocks, I fall, opening my mouth before I even realize what I’m going to say. “I went to Ink and Needle for a tattoo. I didn’t get one. Wolf was there. That’s where I was.”

Her mouth pops open, the only sign that my words surprised her. “You wanted another tattoo?”

Nodding, I explain, “Ever since I got the tattoo on my ribs, I can’t help but remember how freeing it felt to have something permanently etched on my skin, a decision that I made by myself. Since I was a little girl, being jostled back and forth between my parents’ houses, schools, and extracurriculars, I have never been in control. It sounds silly to say that a tattoo has given me so much clarity, so much excitement for the first time in so damn long, but I felt like an adult for the first time in my life. I thought that if I went back and explained to your cousin what I was looking for and what I wanted, he’d be able to help me.” I pause, shaking my head in frustration. Releasing a sigh, I continue, “But he told me that I didn’t know what I wanted, that I seem unsure. So, I left without another appointment.” I seal my lips shut, keeping the disastrous kiss to myself. Even now, after his rejection, my lips tingle at the brief pressure I felt, how damn good he smelled as I jumped up like a rocket to capture his mouth.

“Hey,” CeCe soothes, her features softening. “I understand what you mean; we’ve all been through some shit, yeah? I’m sorry that Wolf didn’t help you out, but maybe it’s for the best. It’ll just give you more time to feel certain about your decision before you go through with it. He’s a dick, but he does know what he’s talking about, sometimes at least.”

“Yeah,” I choke out, considering her words. “Maybe you’re right. Let’s get inside before Ava reorganizes my spice cabinet again.”

7

Wolf

Two months later (February, Spring Semester)

Why the fuck did I come out here?I wonder to myself for the tenth time since I got to this party. When my trainer, Jedd, invited me to his new gym for the grand opening, I thought there would be sponsors, trainers, and athletes mingling over cheap vodka in the name of celebration. I didn’t expect a goddamn rave in the middle of the training center.

Maybe rave is an exaggeration, but blinking neon lights decorate the ceiling like some fucked up Christmas movie, and there’s no doubt drugs are being passed out like appetizers. I don’t do this shit; I train, fight, and leave my MMA persona in the octagon. My bloody knuckles may follow me out the door, but I leave the lifestyle of partying to people who want to live in that space.

I don’t like people; as a rule, I avoid them unless they’re a client, an opponent, or one of the five people I trust. Promotional events hold all the appeal of a root canal without lidocaine or being punched in the face by a two-hundred-pound wall of muscle.

I’d rather be home, working on the piece for my client on Sunday, or in the bar down the street from my shop, drinking a locally brewed IPA with Trent and Aubrey. I’d rather be anywhere but here, surrounded by people desperate for fame and money or fighters looking to start some bullshit feud for marketing.

Sipping on my club soda, I lean against the cinder block wall and watch as people form pods, talking over each other in the name of business. My eyes catch on bright pink on the opposite side of the room, and I groan, sinking back into the wall to try and make myself as small as possible. Fucking hell, I should have known she’d be here.

I wince as soon as the beautiful, pink-haired she-devil spots me and practically sprints over to me. If this were a game of hide-and-seek, I’d lose. I struggle to hide my scowl as she approaches, but it’s no use. Her dark eyes narrow; eyes I once found captivating but now just bother the shit out of me.

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