A New Ride Begins

CHAPTER ONE & CHAPTER TWO:

"A NEW RIDE BEGINS"

17 years after the final ride.

Chapter 1: 

This bed is as hard as concrete, but it's all I can afford. There's cracks in the ceiling tile, a few brown water spots and what looks like the beginning of a spider web being built in the corner. My arms are folded under my head, giving extra support to the lifeless pillow that came with the dingy hotel room. Through the dusty blinds, I can see the rising of the sun and the gleam from the chrome on my bike.

I know that the tank's almost on E and I have 40 miles to go until I reach Charming, California. I hope that I can make it with the little bit of scratch I have left. Once this money drains, who knows what I'll do. But I had to go to Charming while I had the chance. The only missed opportunity is the one you didn't take, right? At least that's what they taught us in 11th grade English.

My mind's spinning, always turning with questions about who I am and where I come from. I know only bits and pieces, parts of the story that I have thrown together from newspaper clippings and premium detective work. My parents were always vague about their time in Charming. I started asking questions young and I was always met with the same dower faces, the same sad eyes.

Even with my brother, Abel, who seemed to know something, but would never say anything.

I was five years old when my dad, Nero, picked me up from school. I was standing with a classmate and the kid turned to me and said with surprise in his voice, "Is that you're Dad?"

Of course it was my Dad. Who else would it be?

No one had ever told me any different. I looked at the kid, confused, and nodded in response.

"Oh," the kid continued. "You just don't look nothing like him."

I looked up at Nero as he walked toward me.

It was the first time, I think, that I really looked at him. His dark complexion, salt and pepper hair bore no resemblance to my milky white skin, blonde hair and blue eyes. He walked up to us and put his hand on my shoulder, looking down at me and smiling in the gentle way he has.

We walked back to the car and he buckled me in the backseat. Abel was already sitting in the front seat, his head lowered and into his cell phone, waiting for us to return.

Nero started the car and pulled off, looking back at me through the mirror like he usually did.

"What's on your mind, Niño?" he asked, his forehead crinkling in concern. "Looks like you're thinking on something real hard."

I wasn't sure I should say anything. I looked at my brother through the side mirror. He didn't look like Nero, either. But he at least looked a little like our Mother, Wendy.

"Are you my Dad?" I asked timidly, my eyes focused on the hands in my lap, too ashamed that I was asking such a question to look at him.

I could hear Nero's deep intake of breath. He seemed to think for a minute, probably looking for the appropriate words to say to a five-year-old. Abel broke in and filled the silence for him.

"No," he said softly. "He's not our Dad. And Mom is not your Mom," he said in the snotty way that older brothers talk to their younger ones.

I could feel the tears well up in my eyes. Not even the quick back hand that Nero threw to Abel's shoulder made me feel better in that moment as I tried to wipe the tears from my face.

Nero jerked the car to the side of the road, glaring at Abel angrily before looking back at me.

"Do I love you like a Papa, Tommy?" he asked in the gentle way he has.