BLoodlines

My life is plagued by my own bloodline—a bitter taste filled my mouth at the thought. It could be time to succumb to my fate. What does it matter anymore? Grams would slap me if she heard the bitter thoughts that raced through my mind.

Grams stood at the stove wearing her favorite flowered apron, making an amazing breakfast as she did every morning. The smell of her blueberry pancakes, eggs, and bacon made my mouth water. She half turned to me, her glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose. “Good morning, baby. How about some breakfast?”

“I’m not hungry, Grams,” I lied.

She clicked her tongue, and her smile dropped. Her cat-like eyes screamed dangerously. For a little old lady, my Grams wasn’t one to f*ck with.

My stomach growled, betraying me.

“Hmm,” she hummed and rolled her eyes. “Sit down, Katrina Marie.”

Grams rarely used my full name like that, but when she did, I listened, and it didn’t matter that I was an adult. I sighed and sat at the small table, big enough for four, though we only needed the space for two. “I’m sorry, Grams. I’m nervous, and I just want to get going soon.”

“Oh, nonsense, coming from the girl that hasn’t been nervous a day in her life. What is the hurry? Is Deadwood too dead for you? We’ve barely unpacked. You should have gone out as I suggested.”

“Okay, that’s not true, first of all. I have been nervous plenty of times. I’m just good at hiding it. And what is the point of making new friends? I’m leaving today.”

Grams set a plate down in front of me. A plate older than her. Most of my grandmother’s things belonged to her mother before her. She used to love telling me stories about life when she was growing up. One person we didn’t talk about much was my mother. It hurt Grams and me, so we avoided that subject.

“You’ll be back, of course. School is merely twenty minutes away.” She placed a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice in front of me and then sat at the table across from me with her plate.

“I’m sure going to miss your food, Grams,” I said with a mouth full of bacon, a couple of chewed-up small pieces falling from my mouth.

Grams arched a brow at me. “So good you forgot your manners.”

I swallowed hard. “Oh, sorry.”

Grams chuckled and shrugged. “It’s okay. So, do I have the pleasure of driving you?”

My fork stopped halfway to my mouth. “Oh, actually, I was going to take my motorcycle. This way, I can come back and forth when I want to.”

Grams nodded, but her face became solemn. She would miss me. “Okay.”

Guilt washed over me like a tidal wave. “I’m sorry, Grams.” I reached out and gently touched her hand. “I have an idea. How about you pick me up over the weekend, and I’ll drive my car back, so I have the bike and the car.”

Grams smiled. “That’s a good idea.”

She tried to hide the sadness, but her eyes gave her away.

“So, have you driven around town yet?”

“Oh, I went out early this morning,” she said as she cut apart her pancake with her fork. “A beautiful little town. It’s so nice to be back here after all this time.”

“Has it changed much?”

“Not really,” she said.

We ate the rest of our breakfast in comfortable silence.

Grams grew up in Deadwood—a small town tucked in between the beautiful hills of the Black Hills Forest. Nothing like Salem, Massachusetts, where we moved from. Grams knew I missed the city. Deadwood was a small town and sort of dead like she said. It was a quiet place. Maybe I just needed to get used to the change of scenery.

Grams’ house sat on the outskirts of town. A house that had been in her family for hundreds of years, but Grams had it kept up. It was more like a cottage tucked into the woods with nothing but a dirt drive. The house was made of stone.

I took one last look around the cozy three-bedroom home. Shelves of pictures lined the living room walls, a fireplace, one brown leather love seat, and a big comfy brown leather chair to match it. It was truly like something out of a fairy tale. I pitied my grandmother for having to leave it behind for so long.

After gathering my things, I went to the two-car garage and pulled the silver tarp off my black Harley-Davidson, a bike that belonged to my father. My arms slid into the sleeves of my black leather coat, which matched the rest of my black outfit. I pulled my auburn hair out from under my coat and opened the door before starting the bike. The deep familiar rumble made me smile wistfully. The bike was one thing that always cheered me up. Sad? Go for a bike ride. I loved the wind whipping my hair behind me—such a feeling of freedom.

Since I was taking the bike first, I only brought enough things to get me by for a few days. It was Monday, Labor Day, so school wouldn’t begin until Tuesday. It would only be a three-day week because there wouldn’t be classes on Friday. I would be studying Creative Writing—in my first year of college. Writing had always held my interest above most things. I adored the craft and magic behind stories. However, I loved art as well. Choosing between writing and art wasn’t easy. Grams insisted I go to college, no matter what I chose.

When I pulled up to the school, there were cars and students everywhere. Grams was right. I should have let her bring me yesterday. What a mess—I thought irritably. Spearfish, South Dakota, was twenty minutes from Deadwood and much bigger but still not as big as Salem. I would attend Black Hills State University this year and the next if things went according to plan.

Once the vehicles and students cleared away, I slowly made my way to the entrance of the parking lot but got cut off by a sleek black car. I stopped the bike and gasped in shock at the near collision.

“Jerk-off!” I screamed in the direction of the car. I revved my bike and squealed the tires as I entered the parking lot.

People watched curiously as it unfolded. I pulled into the spot next to the classic black GTO that I would love nothing more than to run a key across the driver’s side door, and I would if it wasn’t such a beautiful car. However, the owner shouldn’t tempt me at this point.

The driver got out and stood several inches taller than me. His body was twice the size of mine, but that wouldn’t stop me from ripping him a new asshole. I opened my mouth to speak but stopped when he removed the black sunglass that hid his eyes. He put the glasses on top of his black hair, which was in a bit of disarray.

His eyes locked with mine, leaving me breathless at first. But then I saw the coldness in them. It snapped me back to reality. His attractiveness was undeniable—tall, tan, muscular, handsome, with brilliant emerald green eyes—but he was an incredible as*hole.