Page 10 of Salvaged Heart

10

ANDERS

O ver the next few days, I learned the following things about Beckham David. His favorite color is traffic cone orange, his middle name is Marcus, and he is an only child of parents who have been happily married for thirty years. He was also terrible at math despite his mother being a high school mathematics teacher. However, this fact was learned not from our agreement but from him butchering the measurements for the new baseboards several times. Luckily for him, math was one of the few subjects I hadn’t been abysmal at in high school, and it was refreshing to find that the only thing he did not excel at was an area I could be of value. I also learned that he was passionate about helping people and spent a large amount of the little free time he had volunteering at homeless shelters and food pantries.

I chose not to disclose I had spent many nights in shelters myself and thanked pantries like the ones he'd worked at for keeping me fed when times got particularly rough. I'd told him, however, about my dreams of traveling the world to study architecture in different cultures, that my favorite book is ‘Jekyll and Hyde,’ that I speak fluent French, and that while I adore spicy food, it also gives me uncontrollable hiccups. This made him roll on the floor with laughter and insist we order Indian takeout for dinner.

Which led to an hour of research into the best Indian restaurant in the area.

Which led to discovering the answer to that question was ‘Palak Palace’, a hole-in-the-wall spot thirty minutes up I-77.

Which led to us standing under the carport, staring at my bike, like if we looked at it long enough, it would transform into something with four wheels and two seats or, at the very least, grow a sidecar.

“We can do something else for dinner.” I murmured, “Or get an Uber.”

“Nah, this will be fun. I have always wanted to ride on one of these things.” He pushed back his dark brown hair and replaced his ball cap with the extra helmet I’d stored in my room. “Presuming you don’t mind me riding bitch, that is.”

I flashed him a sly grin before swinging my leg over the bike and pushing on my helmet. “Come on then, darling.”

The thought of his toned body pressed up against mine, his hands gripping my hips, the entire ride up I-77 had my dick thickening in my jeans. Yeah, I liked that idea very much. A little too much, if I was being honest with myself. Beck, as always, seemed utterly unfazed by the wink I threw his way as I tapped the seat behind me and started the engine.

He lowered his visor and slid on. “Where do I hold?”

I reached behind me, taking his hands in mine and moving them to my waist. Then, I helped him slide his leg into the correct position on the back footrests before slipping my visor down. His hips slid into place against my back, muscular thighs caging mine. I was instantly aware of every place we were touching, my skin burning from the contact even through several layers of clothes. It was the closest I’d gotten to a hug in five years.

“It will take a second to get used to. Try to go with the bike. Don’t fight leaning into the curves, but don’t throw your weight into them either.” I took the light squeeze he gave my ribs as understanding. “I will do a few laps of the peninsula before we get on the highway. I would rather hit the pavement at thirty miles an hour than seventy.” Another light squeeze, a rev of the engine, and we were off.

As with most things, Beckham took to riding the bike like a natural, and soon, I was confident enough to head in the direction of the highway, blasting up I-77, going twenty over the speed limit. The road was mostly empty, but we hit a slow spot when the highway crossed over the lake. It didn’t seem to matter whether it was tourist season or not. Everyone slowed, crossing the bridge to gaze at the expanse of crystal blue water spreading in each direction as far as the eye could see.

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 in this 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, but the third got me.”

I grumbled in dismay, “I swear if you ever call me the 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.

“Well, good job I didn’t sign one, then. Looks like you’re on your own here.”

He let out three of the most dramatic tuts I'd ever heard. “Oh, but you see, Anderson Leighton Carmichael, the third…” his voice dropped an octave on the last bit, “you did.” He laughed a throaty laugh that would have made me follow him anywhere.

I was fucked.

This would be, without a doubt, how I died.

I met his eyes and held up a finger for emphasis, “One bite, and if I am doing this, then you are too.”

“Deal.” He held out his hand for me to shake.

“Deal.”

The waitress, God bless her, was ready with milk and wet towels as we counted down three, two, one and plunged large spoonfuls of Vindaloo into our mouths. The regret was instantaneous. But not being a quitter, or at least not at that moment, I fully committed and swallowed it in a big gulp after barely two chews. Beckham’s cheeks were puffed up like a hamster’s, and he shook his head, unable to get his throat to cooperate.

“Down the hatch, Beckham. Don’t break our deal.” I mocked him, trying to hide the searing pain in my stomach as the spices settled. I could feel the first of what was sure to be many hiccups fighting its way out of my chest.

He closed his eyes, breathed in heavily through his nose, and gulped the curry down right at the exact moment the first painful hiccup burst from my chest. His eyes flashed open. Another one ripped through me, a smile spreading across his face.

“So-fucking-worth-it.” He chuckled when the third hit.

“I hate you.” Hiccup. “I hate you.” Hiccup.

“You love me.” Hiccup. “Best friends forever.” Hiccup.

Not even the wink that followed could soothe my aching chest.

“You don’t…” Hiccup “need to share” Hiccup “your deep truth today” Hiccup. I took a couple of large gulps of milk, which seemed to help almost immediately. “Turns out I already know you’re a fucking masochist.”