Nowhere But Here. Katie McGarry

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СКАЧАТЬ conversations at once and someone always seems to be laughing.

      “...nothing larger than a 10-gauge...”

      “...take a Ford over that foreign crap any day...”

      “You lost?”

      Everyone stops talking and stares at me. Great. I meet the eyes of the guy that called me out. He’s part of the group, yet not. He doesn’t wear a leather vest like everyone else, but somehow he appears just as dangerous.

      The guy leans against the corner of the brick building as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. He’s around my age, has black hair, is definitely ripped and he has suck-me-in blue eyes that wander over my body like he’s seeing me with my clothes off.

      I cross an arm over myself and his lips edge up in response. My mom’s warned me about bad boys and I trust that she understands the world here better than I do.

      I appraise my black high heels. Nice, they’re scuffed already. “I’m looking for Eli McKinley.”

      Smoke rushes out of the mouth of the older man standing beside the guy my age. I’d wager he’s in his sixties and he scares the hell out of me. Well...everyone here frightens me, but him more. While the style here is stepped-out-of-a-trailer-park, he maintains the cliché of 100% pure biker thanks to his black bandanna, black leather vest and gray beard with matching ponytail. I attempt to ignore that his patch states Mother Chapter and President.

      He keeps eye contact while taking a drag off his cigarette. “Eli’s inside.”

      “Thanks.”

      They continue their conversation and I open the door then steal a glimpse over my shoulder. The older man angles his head and his mouth moves as he mumbles something to the guy my age. The guy nods and pushes off the wall. Not wanting to be caught spying, I slip inside and the moment the door shuts behind me, I freeze.

      Let’s get one thing straight. I hate funeral homes. Hate. I hate the smell of them. I hate the look of them. I hate the thought of them. Hate. And what I hate more than funeral homes are dead things. Dead bugs. Dead dried-up worms on the sidewalk. Roadkill. And since that ill-fated stroll in the woods at the age of eight when I fell into a hole and spent the night with a corpse, I hate dead people’s bodies.

      I force myself forward on the red velvet industrial carpeting of this outdated house of death and rethink this entire situation. Badly painted landscapes hang every few feet over the black-and-white peeling wallpaper. My muscles twitch as if a million spiders crawl over my skin. And the smell! I cup my hand over my nose to smell something other than tragically scented potpourri and wilting lilies.

      Thankfully, there’s only one viewing room, which means only one dead person to avoid. The fine hairs on my neck prickle as if eyes are trained on me. I glance back and my heart stutters when I spot black hair and a dangerous grin. The guy who called me out hangs near the door and he’s watching me. His jeans ride a little low. Low enough that his boxers peek out and it’s hard to tear my eyes away, but I do.

      Not eager for anyone to touch me, I tuck myself in tight as I duck through the crowded hallway. If anyone runs into me, I’ll recall being eight and enclosed and the feel of cold skin, and me spazzing out is not part of the plan.

      “...playing at the bar tonight. Plan on taking the girl...”

      “...hit that hard...”

      “...and she said I don’t want that trash on my property and I said I ain’t trash, bitch...”

      Trash bitch woman wears skintight jeans, a tank top that exposes her midriff and, holy mother of God, flip-flops. She steps back and nearly knocks into me. I sidestep her, but I collide with someone else.

      Cold skin with black markings grazes my arm and my heart lodges in my throat. I flinch and suck in a sharp breath while twisting my feet. I stumble back, completely off-balance, and my arms flail in a poor attempt to stay upright.

      A warm hand grips my elbow and halts me from ramming into anyone else. My head snaps up and I’m greeted by dark blue eyes. The guy who was watching me is now touching me. Remember to breathe. Yes, he’s pretty, but bad things come in gorgeous packages—at least that’s what Mom says.

      “You okay?” he asks.

      “Yeah,” I whisper and immediately return my attention to the guy I crashed into. He’s not dead. He’s very much alive and he’s taking a swig from a beer. Wait. A beer? My gaze switches from him to the bottle.

      “Would you like one?” He motions to a cooler full of ice on the floor.

      I shake my head. Major WTF.

      Black hair guy releases me and motions with his chin to the left. “Eli’s in the viewing room.”

      Viewing room. Right. I mumble a thank-you, but he doesn’t notice as he’s bumping fists and accepting a beer from the guy with the tattoos.

      The viewing room is beyond crowded. Like the-fire-marshal-should-be-notified crowded, which means it will be difficult to find Eli. People laugh, shout and talk as if they’re attending a pep rally instead of a funeral.

      I rise to my tiptoes and clutch my purse. I haven’t seen him in a couple of months, but Eli always looks the same: dark brown hair cut short, plugs in both ears, T-shirt, jeans and a smile that, for some insane reason, can make me smile.

      My stomach sinks like the Titanic as I catch sight of him. Just no...why-does-it-have-to-be-so-difficult no. His back is to me, but I know it’s Eli. A tattoo of stars runs the length of his arm. Like most of the other men here, he wears the black leather vest. And of course, he stands next to the one spot I want nothing to do with—the casket.

      Reminding myself that I’m here for Mom, I squeeze through the mob. Eli stares at the body. The body I’m trying desperately to avoid, but it’s kind of hard to so I focus on my biological father.

      He doesn’t seem to be upset. He’s not crying or anything, but it’s not really Eli, either. His hands rest in his jeans pockets and his typical grin doesn’t grace his face. He appears...thoughtful.

      Until he does something that makes me shiver. He touches her. The dead body. My grandmother. The one I’ve never met. Eli gently readjusts the blue scarf covering her hair, or where her hair would have been. Oh, God...cancer.

      What’s odd—other than that he’s willingly touching a dead person—is that the casket is open. Completely open. Legs and all. Weird. Very weird. Now that I’m looking, I take a deep breath and permit myself to study the woman that brought me to the outskirts of nowhere.

      My grandmother is dressed in blue jeans and a white silk sleeveless top. A sad rush of air escapes my lips. She’s young. A lot younger than I expected. Why this surprises me, I have no idea. Mom and Eli were young when they conceived me. Teenagers still in high school.

      I hurt for Eli. I’ve never lost someone I was close to. He must have loved her and she’s dead. Gone. I’d die if I lost Grandma or Gramps or Mom or Dad. “I’m so sorry.”

      His head whirls in my direction and my dark eyes stare back at me. “Emily?”

      Yeah, I forgot. This visit is unexpected because he didn’t answer his phone. “Hi.”

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