"Wow, Brea," he gasped as she climbed off his lap. "Just … wow."
Chapter 21
Brea loved her work. Second to Miles, tattooing was her favorite thing to do. She was bent over her current client, slowly applying an intricate floral design to the lady's ankle. Only a month after starting at the parlor and Brea had already proven herself enough to be working on her own on a regular basis.
"You're a natural," Gina had beamed in approval as she admired Brea's work. Currently, Brea only worked on existing templates within the parlor but soon she hoped to start integrating some of her own designs into the rotation. The thought of someone having something she drew herself inked onto their body permanently made her feel giddy with excitement.
"Sounds like it's all going well," Sylar had stated flatly when she gushed to him about her job over the phone.
"Oh, it is," Brea insisted brightly. "Though I miss you, of course."
"I doubt that you do," Sylar objected sullenly.
"Of course I do!" Brea cried. "Gina keeps saying that you need to come and visit the parlor again soon."
"Gina said that?" something lightened in Sylar's tone.
"Yeah," Brea smiled to herself. "I think she might have a crush on you."
"Really?" Sylar cleared his throat. "I mean, it's no big deal. If I came over to Colridge again, it'd be there to see you, not her."
"Hmm, whatever," Brea shrugged casually. What was nice about talking to Sylar on the phone since her move to Colridge, was that their calls felt more like the sort of conversations, siblings should be having. They were no longer crushed beneath the weight of things unsaid. They were both getting on with their lives but still keeping in touch with each other. It was all very healthy, very normal and it made Brea happy.
She thought about how happy she was with Miles and wished that Sylar could find some of that kind of happiness for himself. During their conversations she'd yet to bring up the fact that she was seeing someone. Sylar had been so understanding about everything so far, but she sensed that her suddenly having a boyfriend might be enough to send Sylar off the deep end.
"Baby steps," Brea kept telling herself.
She'd come this far. She couldn't help but daydream about going further, about one day riding off into the sunset on the back of Miles' motorcycle as they embarked on their whistle stop tour of America together.
Chapter 22
Miles' hands were slick with grease. The dismantled parts of his motorcycle were scattered around him as if there had been an explosion. His bike was struggling to start. As much as Miles wished he could be spending the day with Brea, he was forced to hang out in the parking lot of the motel, trying to fix his bike.
"You know, son, there's a right decent mechanic up in town," an old man commented as he shuffled out towards his pick-up truck, backlit by the morning light as he looked down at Miles.
"Thanks," Miles smiled kindly at the old man. "But I'd rather try and fix her up myself, save some money."
"He's pretty cheap," the old man insisted. He nodded towards his truck. "I could give you a run down there, pile her up in the back."
It was such a kind offer, Miles was pained to turn it down. But the second the mechanic took a look at his bike he'd know who Miles was, and more importantly, where he was from. The emblem for the Reapers was etched within the engine's interior, like a secret brand. Back home, that emblem was all Miles needed to get a free service on his bike. But here in Colridge, if someone saw it they'd likely break his jaw. And the last thing Miles needed was trouble. He was trying to stay in town as long as possible because being in town meant being with Brea. If he stirred up too much noise, his Uncle would call him back in a heartbeat.
"That's mighty kind, but I really can't put you out like that." Miles hoped that the old man would accept his refusal and not push him anymore. He gave a sigh of relief when the old man nodding and started sauntering over to his truck.
"Suit yourself," he called over his shoulder to Miles. "Was just trying to help you out."
Miles watched the truck sputter out of the parking lot before returning his attention to his bike. He usually found working on it to be therapeutic but currently his mind was as dismantled as the engine around him. He kept thinking about the last time he'd seen Brea, and about what she'd told him about her relationship with her brother. It certainly sounded intense. And Miles couldn't help but wonder, given their history, why he hadn't met Brea's brother yet. Was there more to the story? Would his level of protectiveness threaten Miles' relationship with Brea?
His hand tightened angrily around the wrench he was holding. Miles realized that he'd be willing to fight for Brea, that her brother wasn't the only one who felt protective towards her. But perhaps her brother's feelings were just normal, especially given the extreme circumstances they'd grown up under.
Miles had no siblings. It was just him and his Mom and then it was just him. For the longest time, he didn't think he had any family. He fought for his life on the streets, learning too young how brutal the world can be. He learned how to handle himself in a fight, how to take a punch and more importantly, how to give a good one.
When his Uncle finally found him, Miles must have looked like some sort of wretched street urchin. His clothes and skin were dirtied beyond recognition. His hair was matted against his head and he stank of dirt, sweat, and blood. But beneath all the grime and the pain his Uncle saw Miles. Saw the kind of man he could one day become. Miles had been denied a proper education, but he'd learned all the life lessons he needed from living on the streets. But if his Uncle hadn't found him when he did Miles doubted he could have lasted much longer. His lungs were weak and he had a permanent chill in his bones which felt ready to escalate into something sinister.
Thankfully fate intervened and Miles was saved. His Uncle and the Highway Reapers became his family. For the first time in so long Miles felt like he belonged. He would do anything for the Reapers, he would defend them with his dying breath. Is that how Brea's brother felt about her? Miles reasoned it must be and it helped him understand why their relationship was so intense. Without his mother, Miles had nobody. But when Brea lost her parents she did have something, she had her brother. And the love they felt for one another got forged in the fire of that loss. If Brea's brother hadn't taken care of her, would Brea have ended up like Miles, living hand to mouth out on the streets? He'd seen what happened to girls who ended up living rough and it was a much crueler fate than what happened to boys. Miles was grateful that Brea's brother had saved her like he did. And one day he'd tell him that to his face and shake his hand.
Gunning the engine of his bike Miles grinned with satisfaction when she sputtered and then finally came to life. One of his misguided attempts to get the motorcycle running again must have worked. Standing up he wiped down his hands with an old rag and began gathering his tools back up. With the bike repaired it meant that he could go into the town and see Brea. His day just kept getting better and better.
Chapter 23
Brea was drawing a fairy. But not the happy kind like you find in fairy tales. No, this fairy was very much broken because even in a world with magic everything isn't perfect. Brea used long, sweeping strokes of her pencil to create the wings which were wilted with sadness. The fairy herself was sat with her head bent against her knees which were drawn up tightly to her chest. Her pretty floral dress was tattered and soiled as it spilled on the ground around her. The image was as beautiful as it was sad.
When Brea was satisfied that she was finished, she took a deep breath and went to approach Gina in the break room.
Gina was laughing at something on the television, two hands cupped around a hot cup of black coffee. She looked up when Brea walked in, the smile remaining on her lips.
"Gina, hey," Brea nervously kept her sketch pad to her chest as she entered the small room which smelt of stale coffee and pop tarts.
"Hey, sweetie," Gina grinned. Her smile widened as she spied the sketchbook Brea was pressing against her chest like a shield. "You got something to show me there?"