2. Pia
1337 Words
2
Pia
Arrestingly cold eyes...
I couldn’t rid my mind of their green depths that chilled more than heated, and the black lashes framing them. And the equally hardened forearm that had flexed beneath my grasp...
Sighing, I moved ahead one spot in line, needing an iced coffee to soothe the dryness in my throat. I’d planned on a hot cup regardless of the heat outdoors, but the second I’d slammed into the tall biker in the parking lot, my innards lit on fire. Burned up to a crisp the second our gazes had connected.
I’d recognized the tension in him beneath my fingertips—the inability to withhold from flinching. He’d been hurt same as so many people I’d fought to help over the years. The teenagers I’d devoted my life to, the unwanted, those left to the system and whatever foster parents willing to take them in.
Once inside Dunks, I’d watched the biker drive off on his chopper, his black leathers and boots much too hot for summer, yet required, I’d supposed, for riding.
I moved another step closer to the counter, glancing over the array of fresh donuts, the icing and sprinkles enticing me to ignore the fact I didn’t need another inch on my thighs.
The thought of the stranger between them, his bike rumbling beneath us, rekindled the fire he’d invoked, and I squeezed my legs together beneath my frumpy skirt as wetness dampened my granny panties.
Just as alluring as his virile masculinity, the sense of freedom his bike offered, tempted my imagination to run wild.
Wind whipping through my shoulder-length hair, the coolness kissing my heated face. Complete liberation from the window-less, tiny office awaiting me.
“Miss Pia!”
I stepped forward, pushing aside dreams of freedom and smiling at the young man behind the counter. “Jesse—it’s been forever! How are you doing?”
“Great.” He grinned. “Tell me you aren’t going with your usual scalding coffee?”
I shook my head, glancing once more at the strawberry iced donuts behind him. “I’ll take it over ice today.”
“Sure thing, Miss Pia. Anything else?”
One hot biker with cold, hazel-green eyes...
“That’ll be it today,” I told him, ignoring the call of the sugary carbs and freedom I would never have to whet my appetite.
Jesse moved off to get my coffee, and I considered the barely eighteen-year-old I’d had beneath my wing for over eight years. He’d been one of the lucky ones, while in and out of foster homes, he hadn’t been troubled by aggression or unwanted advances. He’d never found his forever home, but he’d had it easier than most.
So many of my kids struggled through their final years in foster care. One had disappeared a year earlier—Sophia Delgado—a beautiful Latina her final foster father had lusted after.
I hadn’t been able to get her out of the home in time. At seventeen, she’d left me a message telling me what he’d attempted to do, and that she was done with the system.
She’d erased herself from the face of the earth as far as I and the law who didn’t give two shits about a family-less runaway knew. No body had ever turned up, though. I hoped for the best rather than the probable truth of her existence as a s*x slave in some far-off country.
“Here you are, Miss Pia.” Jesse handed me my coffee in exchange for a five dollar bill.
“Do you remember Dasia?” I asked, watching his face closely as he made change.
A hint of a frown creased his forehead for a second. “The little redhead from the Carters?”
I nodded, accepting my change, my throat tightening over the latest disappearance. “Have you seen her around town at all?”
“No, ma’am. Is she in trouble?”
Expecting my smile would wobble, I tried for one anyway. “She left her foster parents’ home four days ago and never returned.”
Jesse’s face fell, and I longed to lean over the counter and hug the sweet young man. “I hope you find her.”
“If you see her...”
“I’ll let you know, Miss Pia.” He nodded. “Promise.”
Two minutes later, I drove toward Boston, the windows rolled down rather than cranking the AC, enjoying the hot breeze blowing through my hair—as close to freedom as I expected I would ever get to experience.
Had Dasia run off for the same reasons as Sophia? She’d told me she hated the newest home she’d been placed in, but I’d begged her to hang in there with only a few months until she turned eighteen...
I exhaled a heavy breath and pulled into my Monday through Friday parking garage, escaping the sun, the darkness weighing like the layers of cement and steel overhead.
Both Sophia and Dasia were beautiful young woman, on the cusp of adulthood. Ready to begin their own lives, free to choose what they would. Had Dasia chosen to leave on her own as Sophia had, or had someone noted her natural ginger beauty and stolen her off the streets?
Cold shivers licked at my spine as I walked through the dark parking garage toward the exit leading back to Boston’s downtown. Sweat trickled down my back and between my breasts but did little to cool my body.
The heavy scent of exhaust clogged my lungs, and even though the bright sunlight squinted my eyes once more, I breathed easier once outside the claustrophobic atmosphere of the garage.
My hole in the wall office didn’t offer much better, but at least clean air filtered through the air conditioning ducts thanks to my boss who insisted on purifiers throughout the office space.
A few phone calls into my day provided no news on Dasia. My daily online search for Sophia and missing Latina girls provided the same as every morning. Sighing, I sipped the last of my ice-melted, watered-down coffee, and stared at the search bar on my computer screen.
Even though my door remained closed, murmurings from the neighboring offices droned through the thin walls. The AC kicked off, and with seconds, heat prickled my skin again.
I closed my eyes against the feeling of the walls creeping in on me, counting to ten and back down to keep anxiety from rising and tightening my throat.
Breathing steadily with purpose to stay calm, I opened my eyes and typed in Vicious Vipers without thought, remembering the rockers on the back of hazel-eye’s leather vest.
News articles and images popped up.
Group photo...
I clicked on the picture from a charity event they’d been involved in a few years earlier, my gaze landing on the bearded man I’d plowed into that morning. Cold eyes, even in black and white... My heart jumped as I noted the names listed beneath.
Fingertip trailing air above my screen, I found him.
Ryker McGrath.
I focused on his face once more, seeing beyond the cool reflection I expected he masked himself with to hide the hurt within. Unable to help from digging, I opened another tab and searched his name, perusing articles and various websites.
A Southie boy who’d left for the North Shore twenty years earlier. Forty-three, single, and a mechanic. The Sergeant at Arms for the Vipers’ local chapter.
I imagined being one of the bandana-wearing women on the back of the bikes—skin tight jeans even if they wouldn’t flatter my figure, s**t-kicker boots … rooting out the cause of Ryker’s pain and helping to heal the wounds deep inside him.
Shaking my head, I pushed thoughts of romance and breathing easy and free from my mind.
I needed to get a grip—I had work to do.
Reality sucked a big one.
Closing out all five browsers, I considered who else I might call, who else might have heard from or might have seen both of my missing girls. I prayed they still lived even though I felt I didn’t while choosing to help the kids who needed me.
“Someone must know where they are.” I picked up my phone and dialed another of the young adults I still kept in touch with since their release from the state’s care.
They’re who I live for, I reminded myself, but the truth I’d spent over ten years doing so didn’t ease the new ache—the longing for more—inside my chest.
- Writer
