The Mormon Renegade

Chapter 16

A million thoughts flood my mind but, "Uhhhh...?" Is all the comes out. Spending majority of the day sedated by my own thoughts leaves me lost to the art of conversation.

"That's all I get? A pathetic sound like, uh? No, 'thank you, Andy' or 'what the hell are you doing here?' Hell I'll even take, 'how can I ever repay you?'" He fakes a girlish voice which is distinctly two octaves higher than my own.

"How about, 'you just can't resist the pleasure of my company, can ya?'" I've officially gone loopy unsure where the spontaneous spur of bravery surfaced from.

He recoils, cocking his head and frowning in bewilderment. Why did I do that?

"Forget I said a thing, will you?" I rake trembling fingers through my frizzy bob, attempting to flatten the stubborn strands. "Might as well." Is his spiritless response. Now I share his frustration.

Assuming I'd be seated in the back —where I sat last night beside Scout— he surprises me a second time in the span of a few minutes, opening the passenger door like a butler does for the rich.

"Wow, chivalry isn't quite dead, just on vacation." I whisper the last bit in a condescending tone, angling downward into the low vehicle unable to see his reaction. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful but that doesn't mean he should know.

It's much easier to appreciate the leather upholstery in daylight, where the workmanship and professional finishings are better highlighted.

"Did you see Dominic's Mechanic to repair your car by any chance?" Once he's in the drivers seat he freezes midway of turning the key in ignition, evidently perplexed eyes bear into mine.

"How the hell could you possibly know that?" He tenses his sharp jaw when suspicious of others, it's a constant trait of his I've picked up from our handful of insignificant meetings.

"I recognize his handiwork, he replaced your steering wheel too, right?" Andy's silence answers my question. "See here..." I stretch a hand near his on the wheel and I swear he inches away a fraction at the movement.

Wiping a thumb over the leather covering I find the minuscule 'M' sharing its final line with the 'D', marking his vehicle. "...this is kind of a watermark of his, he incorporates it with the stitching pattern."

I hadn't realized how absurdly small the gap among us is until the tattoo below his Adam's apple becomes readable. The old calligraphy font spells what I interpret as 'Arstemihs'. He stares at me, swallowing almost cautiously.

"...Why?" The radio turns on as he veers onto the main road, attention focused ahead, I return to my side. "So that he leaves a mark, almost like a—"

"Horcrux." He interrupts.

"What's that?" We take the least congested lane into the backstreets which are easier to navigate and provide less room for error. "Ha-ha, funny." He drips with sarcasm.

He mistakes my blank expression as a joke but the longer I stay clueless he registers it as legitimate. "You've never watched the Harry Potter movies?"

I shake my head. "Seriously?" Again, I shake no. "Really?"

"If I shake my head anymore I'll get whiplash." I always hated when people treated me as dim-witted for not knowing things they did. A white supremacist, Mormon household rarely left room for much else aside from praying and --in my case-- starving.

"That's ridiculous. You're childhood must've been crap." He wasn't wrong.

"My parents never let us read anything that wasn't the..." If I tell him my depressing backstory he might treat me different just as Ashley has and considering he is the only person who makes me feel like a 'normal' person, I decide against it. It's better this way. "...Bible." He arches an eyebrow not buying the excuse.

"So your parents were Bible bashers?" Andy doesn't understand my emotionless exterior unaware of how accurate he is. "Yeah, Bible bashers."

"Well what kind of things did you grow up watching?" I fall silent buried in the drowning flood of unpleasant memories involving emotional or physical abuse at the hands of my parents.

One such occasion saw father ram my head against a metallic door handle so hard, I suffered a concussion. Beckette would try to fight him off when he was there and I did the same in return but once he left... I learnt to fend for myself.

"Hello? Tristan?"

"Mmm?" Fifteen minutes has flown.

"There has to be something that makes you 'normal'," he emphasises the word patronisingly, "were you a Marvel or DC kid growing up?" Those words are non existent in the countless information files stashed within my brain. "No idea." He seems agitated tightening his hold of the steering wheel.

"That's it? You spend one night in jail and now you can't remember your childhood?" Why does it matter to him so much? This is such a petty argument to get heated about.

Thinking through the possible methods that'll guarantee the end of this awful discussion I decide on the most confronting, hoping it has the desired effect.

I face him making sure his attention is caught. "Firstly, no I don't know the shows or movies you're talking about because most of my childhood was spent wondering where the hell my brother was after he abandoned us four years ago."

"Secondly, this jail is nothing compared to the jail that was my childhood and adolescence." The speech pours out in a harsh spout firmer than I intended, flowing in consecutive breathless sentences till I'm blue in the face from lack of oxygen.