Page 80 of Hurt

As the miles ticked by, they both relaxed, and the tension changed. Kurt scooted closer until his entire body was pressed against Grant, and there was a relaxed slant to his shoulders.

“Faster!”

Kurt’s lips brushed against his neck, and there was so much joy in his voice that Grant gunned it. Happiness spilled from Kurt, and Grant thought he would do anything to hear that laugh. To see something besides fear and pain in those eyes. There was no price too high if he could replace one bad memory with one he didn’t hate. A memory he could cling to when he needed to hide from the bad.

Later, he might think about how Kurt was pressed against him, and his hands were resting on his lap. It might be an arousing thought, one he could use when he was alone in his room. But right now, all he was thinking about was driving fast enough to outrun Kurt’s demons.

Neither one of them counted the miles or paid attention to the curves in the road. It was like the farther they got from The Sunspot, the looser Kurt got. Diving deeper into Weaver territory was like wrapping them both in a protective shield where they could relax.

Grant eased up on the throttle when he caught sight of a small food truck.

A rusted van was parked in a little dirt lot off a curve in the highway. Someone had set up a picnic table, and there were two cars parked beside it. The van was probably brightly painted at one point, but the sun and wind of the desert had all but peeled the paint off. Rust was beginning to creep in at the corners. His bike rolled into the lot, and he set the brake.

Kurt stepped off and wobbled a little, snorting a bit at himself. “Feels like my legs are jelly.”

Grant dismounted more gracefully. “Takes some getting used to.”

Watching a bow-legged Kurt bobble as he walked tested Grant’s control. He noticed him trying not to laugh and punched him in the shoulder.

“Shut up,” he snarked, turning his head so Grant wouldn’t see him smiling.

The menu for the food truck was a whiteboard leaning up against a tire. The writing was so faded it was difficult to see. Grant just ordered whatever Kurt got.

The woman smiled as she took their cash, yelling their order at a young man in the back. They spoke in Spanish, and the smells coming from the rusted truck were heavenly. She handed them two overstuffed tortillas wrapped in tinfoil. Piping hot, they had to play hot potato with them until they took a seat at the picnic table.

Kurt pulled back half the tin foil and let the taco cool off. “I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before.”

Grant followed suit, eyeing the sauce seeping from the small tears in the tortilla. “I always wanted one. My grandfather threw a fit when I came home with it. Roland refuses to ride on it.”

Taking a large bite from the food, Kurt watched Grant out of the corner of his eye. “But you love it.”

He nodded. “I do. Roland likes to sit in silence when he’s stressed. I go for a ride.”

Grant bit into the taco and nodded his head as the spices sparked against his tongue. He was far from a food connoisseur, but he could tell these tacos were homemade with a lot of passion. Taking another bigger bite, he enjoyed what he tasted until the heat began building in his mouth. It went from zero to a hundred, and his eyes were suddenly watering.

Kurt watched him and cackled. “I guess you can’t handle spicy food,” he said through his laughter. He took pity on Grant and jogged over to the truck, buying a bottle of water for a choking Grant.

“And here I thought you were good at everything.”

Chugging half the bottle, he gasped when he could finally breathe again.

“Guess now is a good time to mention that I like my food hot.”

“Might have been nice five minutes ago,” Grant rasped.

Kurt grinned and continued eating his taco. Grant stared down at his food dubiously. It was so good…he decided to risk it anyway, earning an approving nod from Kurt.

“Willow likes spicy food. She would sneak into the kitchen and toss in handfuls of chilis or heap in cayenne pepper. Mom was always worried she wouldn’t eat enough to perform well, so we always had what she wanted. I just kind of got used to it.”

He didn’t sound bitter or upset about it. Just explaining where his fondness for spicy food came from. It was one of the first times Kurt had volunteered something about his childhood.

“What about your older sister?” Grant asked tentatively.

“Oh, she was the best cook. Once she was tall enough to reach the stove, she took over all cooking duties. Mom and dad were gone a lot, and we never knew when they would come back, so she would make this huge pot of soup, and we would just reheat it and eat it for days.” He smiled wistfully. “Willow would go around the kitchen and find the weirdest thing she could to put in the soup. One time Hazel caught her pouring mayonnaise into Tomato soup. She made her eat the entire thing, threatening her with a wooden spoon. And later, when she was inevitably sick, Hazel patted her back and didn’t tell her, ‘I told you so.’”

Grant was impressed. “Her self-restraint was impressive.”

“Oh, yeah. She was…well. She could sing too, you know? The clearest voice I’ve ever heard. After she died, Noah and Willow would listen to the recordings until they were almost worn out.”