Lawless Read Free Page B

my bike. The fingers that taught me Chopsticks. That molded me into who I am today.
    “That’s my euphoria,” he tells me quietly. “You breathing.”
    My eyes sting with tears I don’t want to cry. I take a shaky breath and smile at my dad, so touched by the sweet sentiment of this rough, weathered guy.
    Mom reaches out and takes my hand, smiling down at me. “We’re both happy you’re okay.”
    “Yes, we are,” dad agrees, his entire manner shifting from sweet to stern in an instant, “because maybe now that you’re awake you can explain to me why the hell Lawson Daniel of all people has been hovering in the waiting room demanding to see you all night.”

Chapter Three
    He stands at the end of my hospital bed after a long, sleepless night. His eyes are puffy. His face is tired. He’s wearing board shorts, flip flops, and a faded Sublime t-shirt, and yet he still looks like a model that stepped straight out of an ad for the female orgasm. It’s not right. It’s unfair, and it’s every reason that I’ve been careful to keep clear of him all these years. But now there he stands – my savior. The man who just hours ago I clung to, pleading with him to stay by my side.
    And the son of a bitch actually did it.
    “Have you ever noticed, Lawson Daniel,” I ask him slowly, “that everyone calls you by your full name?”
    His mouth quirks into a wry grin. “Not until this moment, no.”
    “I have. I’ve noticed. Do you know why I think they do it?”
    “No. Why?”
    “Because you’re trouble.”
    “That’s probably true.”
    “My mom uses my full name when I’m in trouble. The same way people use your full name when they talk about you. Not like you’re in trouble, but like you are trouble.”
    “What’s your full name?”
    “What’s yours?”
    “Lawson Daniel.”
    “What’s your middle name?”
    His grin grows into a smile. “What’s yours?”
    I roll my hand in a round-and-round gesture. “This is just going to keep going like this, isn’t it?”
    “Probably.”
    “I quit,” I groan, letting my head sink deeper into the pillow, my face turning to the ceiling.
    It reminds me of yesterday when I was laying on the beach. I was drinking in the sun, getting ready to start the rest of my life, and Lawson was nothing but a body by a bonfire. Just a name I knew. Now here he stands in the flesh and I owe him every breath I breathe through my body.
    What a difference a day makes.
    “I heard you’re gonna be okay,” he comments, coming around the side of the bed to stand by my right leg. He doesn’t look at it, though. He only looks at my face. In my eyes. “No permanent damage?”
    “Yeah. It’ll scar, but they said I don’t have any muscle damage. It won’t hurt to walk. Not after it heals.”
    “When do you get to go home?”
    “Tomorrow. They want me to stay overnight to make sure I don’t have an infection. And I’ll have to come back to get the stitches taken out.”
    “Couple weeks?”
    “How’d you know that?”
    He turns and shows me the back of his left leg. Through the thick brown hair I can see a white scar racing up his tan calf.
    “Coral,” he explains. “Ripped right into me. I had ten stitches.”
    “Where else?”
    “Where else have I had stitches?”
    “Yeah.”
    He grins again, turning to face me. “To answer that I’d have to strip almost naked and shave my head.”
    I roll my eyes. “Or you could just tell me instead of showing me.”
    “Scars are meant to be seen, not heard.”
    “Maybe another time, then.”
    “You know where to find me.”
    I do. Anyone who lives on this side of Los Angeles knows where to find him. On the beach. On his board. In the curl. He’s been riding since he was a kid. He learned to surf back when the rest of us learned to ride bikes, but while we never got good enough to compete in the Tour de France, Lawson went on to win every amateur surfing competition he stepped into. I heard a rumor in high school that he was being