Page 19 of Salvaged Heart
I weaved in and out of cars, loving the feeling of being on the road again. Riding had always been therapeutic for me. The low hum of the tires rolling over the tarmac was one of the few things loud enough to dull the almost constant roar inside my brain. I hadn’t ridden my bike since the night Beck had caught me sneaking in drunk off my face, my cheeks heated from the embarrassment of him seeing me in such a state. I didn’t usually drive drunk or high, and despite what many of my other actions proved, I did have at least a little sense. But the last few days, I had been doing better. The cravings still haunted me every waking moment, but something about Beckham’s presence made them more bearable. I was by no means clean, but I had noticed the amount of time I could go between using or drinking was slowly lengthening, and the amount I needed to get by was reducing. Most importantly, Beckham remained blissfully unaware I was struggling at all.
We pulled off the highway at exit thirty-five and soon found ourselves in the parking lot of a strip mall with ‘Palak Palace’ nestled in one corner. We would have missed it entirely if we hadn’t known it was there. The place was unassuming, obviously a locals-only establishment, but I threw the bike in park, lowered the stand, and followed Beckham as he leaped off the back.
“That was fun.” He grinned, removing the helmet.
His hair was a sweaty mess underneath, and I was sure mine would look no better. “We should go on more rides. Get us out of that house now and then.”
“I’d like that.”
We strolled inside the mostly empty restaurant and were guided by a plump Indian woman to a booth along the back wall. The tables were covered in thick, shiny tablecloths, and the seats cracked from overuse. The rich smell of spices hung in the air, sending my stomach into a frenzy of hunger. I could feel the drool gathering in my mouth.
“Everything sounds so good.” Beckham groaned, flipping the menu from front to back and back again. I matched his sentiment with my own. When the women returned, we ordered some dishes to share along with garlic naan. Beckham added, “Make it spicy,” and shot a playful wink at me that felt like a lightning bolt to the heart.
He ran his fingers through his dark hair, leaning back in the seat and laying his arm along the top of the booth. It was a surprisingly sexy move, and I found every atom in my body vibrated with the desire to slip in next to him and cuddle up to his ripped chest.
“You owe me some truths.” He nudged my foot under the table. “I haven’t forgotten.”
Right, this again.
I rolled my eyes dramatically, but, in all honesty, I had come to enjoy our little game. Revealing parts of myself to him inthis way felt safer, somehow, than just offering them up for no reason. A truth for a truth, a piece of my heart in exchange for a piece of his. An insurance policy that I had just as much ammo to use against him if he turned my confessions on me. This was probably an unhealthy attitude, but I suspected he had known when he made this deal that I would only open up to him under the guise I had control.
“Urm…I got one. My full name is Anderson Leighton Carmichael,” I inserted a pause for dramatic effect. “The third.”
“Shut the fuck up!” He threw his head back in laughter, tears welling in his eyes as he tried to gasp for breath around his howls. I allowed him a minute to gain his composure with no such luck.
“You’re one to laugh, Mr. David Comma Beckham.” This only made him laugh harder. He clutched his side like he had ruptured a vital organ. The other two occupied tables in the restaurant were scowling in our direction at the disruption.
“Okay, okay. You have a point there.” He took a couple of deep breaths to recenter himself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh, butthe thirdgot me.”
I grumbled in dismay, “I swear if you ever call methe third, that will be the end of our very brittle friendship.”
“What about Trey?”
That didn’t even justify a response. Luckily for me, the waitress arrived at that exact moment, arms heavy under the weight of our food. She placed each item in the center of the table between us, rattling off which dish was which before setting an empty plate in front of each of us.
“Anything else I can get you, boys?” She asked in heavily accented English.
“I think we’re good.” I answered right at the same time Beckham said, “Milk.”
My tongue was on fire,my head felt like it was going to explode, and my diaphragm ached from hiccuping myself to death. The only saving grace to my pride was that Beckham seemed in just as much pain as I did. We’d started confidently, shoveling the food into our mouths, making lewd moaning sounds around every bite. Everything was so incredibly delicious. Tikka Masala, butter chicken, naan and the rice. Oh my God, the rice was to die for—perfectly cooked, fluffy, buttery, and spiced to perfection.
Looking back, that is where we should have stopped—quit while we were ahead. But then Beckham got a suspicious twinkle in his eye and disappeared to ‘the bathroom.’ Even he had used air quotes when he excused himself. The next thing I knew, he was sitting back down, a hot plate of bubbling red sauce covering what looked like pork. It even smelled spicy. My nose winced as I took a sniff.
“I’m scared to even ask,” I admitted.
“You know, I feel a little cheated. I was promised full body shakes and uncontrollable hiccups, and I’m starting to feel, Anderson…” he dragged my name out like a villain in a Bond movie, “that you were lying to me.”
I covered my face with my hands, shaking my head in dismay. “What did you do, Beckham? What is that?” I peeked between two fingers sheepishly.
“This? Oh, this is a little thing chef-y back there whipped up for us when I asked for the spiciest thing on the menu.”
Oh, fuck.
“I did have to sign a waiver to be allowed this.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Afraid I am.” His grin could only be described as pure evil.
