Page 151 of Rock Me All Night
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The night airrushes around me. Damn, that cold has bite. Southern California afternoons are sunny and warm. It's easy to forget the temperature plummets on winter nights.
Goosebumps spread across my arms. I shiver and hug my chest. A cocktail dress isn't the warmest attire.
Miles slides his leather jacket off and slings it around my shoulders. He pulls me closer. "I guess that means your buzz is wearing off."
I don't laugh. I don't know what that's supposed to mean.
Or what the hell this trip is supposed to mean.
My high heels poke tiny holes in the grass. I try my best to lean forward, weight on my toes, but one of the heels gets stuck. I trip.
Miles catches me. He saves me from scraping my knee on one of the grey tombstones.
Yes, we're at the cemetery, the one in Ladera Heights. It's too dark to see most of the place, but I still make out a large stone crucifix and a statue of the Virgin Mary.
It's funny. There's a mall four blocks away. To my left is the somber remembrance of death. To my right, there's a Target and a Forever 21 and a parking lot with bright white lights.
Miles kneels down next to me and gingerly unhooks my shoes, one at a time. He pulls them off my feet, his fingertips lingering on my ankle.
It should be criminal for anything to feel this good. Especially in a place where everything usually feels so bad.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Not really dressed for mourning."
"I disagree." He takes my shoes with one hand and holds me close with the other. "You're celebrating life. Death is just another part of that cycle." His eyes find mine. "You know that tattoo on my chest."
"I'd love to be reminded."
He pulls his t-shirt down, exposing his gorgeous, perfect pectoral muscles. There it is—be brave, live—in thick black letters.
"I always that it was a little new age for you," I say.
"It's a recovery thing. A reminder to experience life instead of trying to numb myself to anything that might hurt."
It's a nice sentiment, but I don't see how it's relevant to the discussion at hand. If there's even a discussion. This is more like show and tell. Miles shows, and Miles tells, and I can take it or leave it.
He studies my reaction. Runs his fingers over my cheek to my chin, tilting me so we're eye to eye. Those blue eyes of his are so damn earnest.
"I know you hate when people are cryptic," he says.
"Accurate."
"But give me a minute." He brings his hand to my lower back and leads me down another row.
We walk for a few more moments and Miles stops in front of a plain gray tombstone.Damon Webb. Father, Uncle, Friend.He died last year, just like Miles said.
"He adopted me legally after my mom died. I took his name instead of my dad's," Miles explains. He sets my shoes on the ground, turns to face me, and takes my hands. "The quote. It's cheesy. But it was something my uncle always said when I started causing trouble. He saw right through my bullshit. When I got suspended for getting into a fight, he'd sit me down on that leather couch and toss a bag of frozen peas in my hands. Then he'd kneel next to me, stare into my eyes, and he'd tell me that if I wanted to run, I'd be running forever."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, he was a smart guy. Self-made fortune, knew all the business stuff that bored me to tears. He knew how I felt losing my mom, especially to suicide. It hurt him, too. He was angry, too. But I got into fights every week. I got suspended fifteen times. I broke all my guitars."
I suck in a deep breath. I want to trust Miles but I'm not sure I'm ready to let my guard down again. Not yet.
Still, we were friends, or something close to that. I want to be there for him right now. Maybe not tomorrow, or next week, but right now.
