Page 70 of The Ground Beneath Our Feet
“Oh, baby. Come and get me. I’ll hold you through it.”
I felt a ray of hope that I’d never felt. Maybe I could survive this.
And then I thought about last night.
What if I let myself feel good about it? What if I allowed myself to feel sexy?
Mikey made me feel sexy. He made me feel wanted.
I closed my eyes and nodded. “Okay,” I whispered.
“Okay,” he whispered back. “You want to watch parkour later? I’m meeting up with friends.”
I nodded and curled up with my head on his bicep. He held me until it was light.
“Here.”
Mikey threw his Subaru into park and got out like he had to pee, running around to open my car door. He grabbed my hand and pulled me along, barely waiting for me as he raced across the eerily empty parking lot. I hurried behind him, pulling my cardigan sweater around my body in the night chill as best as I could one-handed.
We’d stopped at an industrial complex south of Santa Barbara. Dull gray buildings built on multiple levels surrounded a patio center, with concrete staircases heading every which way. Planters filled with tropical plants crouched low, corralled by low cement walls.
Deserted.
The yellow-orange street lights cast down cones of light that spotlighted how empty the parking lot was. I followed Mikey up to the first staircase, where he suddenly hopped up, both feet together, and balanced on the stair rail.
“Wow,” I whispered, impressed. He was like Tigger bouncing on his tail, unbound by the effects of gravity. He grinned, balanced on one foot on the rail, and then lightly jumped all the way past six or eight steps to the ground. He landed and looked up as a little red Honda pulled into the lot, the thump of a bass line blaring in the stillness. When that car engine turned off, the music stayed on, and people spilled out of it like circus clowns from a funny car. Four guys in hoodies and two tough-looking girls came over to Mikey. He grinned broadly and stuck out his meaty hand to shake all of theirs, except one who seemed antsy—that guy waved and took off running up a railing.
“Jessica, meet everyone. Everyone, this is my girlfriend, Jessica Torres.”
Mikey called me his girlfriend.Mikey called me his girlfriend. I looked at him, my skin heating, and he smiled down at me and kissed me lightly.
One of the others said, “Let’s do this.”
Out of nowhere, one of the guys, hoodie number one, standing just to the side of me took a few steps back and did a standing back flip. Ankles overhead, ass showing droopy drawers, landing it with a smile as wide as Mikey’s. It took a fraction of a second to do. An almost-silent whoosh of wind and a gentle thump once his feet came down.
My eyes popped wide like an emoji.
Parkour.
“Yeah, Dean!” said Mikey, and gave him a fist bump. He turned to hoodie number two. “Got the camera?”
“Yep,” said number two, pulling out a professional camera.
“Aw, yeah,” whooped hoodie number three, who took off running toward the closest building, somehow climbed three steps up the wall and flipped. Then he turned to camera man. “Did you get that?”
“I did. Epic.”
“My turn,” said one of the girls. She took off running in a grassy area, doing handsprings and ending with a round-off. Beauty, motion in flight.
“Looking good, Julie,” said hoodie number four.
She stood, triumphant.
One by one, the street gymnasts gathered their wits, closed their eyes, and went for it, hurtling down metal stair rails on multiple levels, flipping off of planters, making it seem that their feet should be higher than their ankles at all times.
Flying.
With the music playing and the camera recording, they high-fived each other, hollered and yelled, and used the hard edges of the architecture like it was padded and safe. But of course it wasn’t. With every jump, I cringed, waiting for them to crack their heads open. Waiting for the spinal injury.
