Chapter 3
Tessa's POV
Over the next week, I recovered slowly in the Colemans' guest room. The sharp pain in my ribs dulled to an ache, and the bruises on my face began to fade. Each morning when I woke up, I feared this would all suddenly end—that they'd throw me out or worse, send me back to my father.
That morning, I finally managed to walk without bracing against the wall. I carefully made my way to the kitchen looking for something to eat. Sunlight flooded the room where Lisa was busy cooking, delicious aromas filling the air.
"Good morning, Tessa," she turned and smiled. "How are you feeling?"
"Much better." I stood awkwardly in the doorway, uncertain if I could enter.
Lisa noticed my hesitation. "Come help me, would you? I'm making pancakes. You can crack the eggs."
I slowly approached as she handed me a bowl and several eggs.
"Like this," Lisa demonstrated. "Tap it gently on the edge, then pull the shells apart."
I carefully mimicked her motion, but my first egg shattered, shell fragments falling into the bowl. Damn it!
"No problem," Lisa said easily. "I did the same my first time. Just fish out the shells with a fork."
I looked at her in surprise, waiting for that familiar explosion—my father would rage at the smallest mistake. But Lisa just continued stirring, showing me how to add sugar and vanilla.
"Is that... my place?" I asked quietly, pointing to a set of dishes at the table.
Lisa turned. "Of course, why?"
I shook my head, unable to explain. At home, I never had a set place. Actually, I usually ate standing in the kitchen corner or hidden in my room, if my father was in a good mood.
When Michael entered, he glanced at the table, then at me. "Looks like we have a new kitchen assistant."
I blushed, unsure if this was praise or criticism. But when the corner of his mouth turned up slightly, warmth spread through my chest.
The chocolate in the pancakes melted on my tongue. Probably the best thing I'd ever tasted.
"Thank you," I said softly, not just for the food, but for everything.
"This is my shop," Michael pushed open the door, letting me enter.
The place was clean and organized, tools neatly arranged on the walls, the air heavy with the smell of motor oil and metal. Sunlight streamed through large windows, illuminating several motorcycles under repair.
"You actually fix motorcycles here?" I looked around.
Michael nodded, picking up a wrench. "This is my legitimate business. Problem with that?"
"No, it's just..." I hesitated, "in South District, most people don't choose... legitimate businesses."
His mouth quirked up. "That's exactly what makes it valuable."
A partially disassembled motorcycle in the corner caught my attention.
"What model is that?" I walked toward the black bike.
Michael raised an eyebrow. "Harley-Davidson Sportster 883. You know motorcycles?"
I shook my head. "No, but I like machines. They're... predictable, logical, not complicated like people."
He studied me thoughtfully, then walked to the motorcycle. "This bike has carburetor problems I haven't had time to fix. Want to try?"
"Me?" I looked up in surprise. "I don't think I can..."
"Don't let anyone tell you what you can't do." He looked directly into my eyes. "Try once, fail, try again. That's my rule."
He stood behind me, guiding me through disassembling the carburetor. His breath brushed my ear, his warm chest nearly touching my back. I felt an unexplained nervousness, my fingers trembling slightly on the wrench.
"Relax," his voice close to my ear, his hand covering mine to steady it. "Like this."
God, his palm was so warm... Damn, get it together! I shouted at myself internally.
Two hours later, when the motorcycle engine ran smoothly, I couldn't help smiling. "I did it!"
Michael raised an eyebrow. "You've got hands made for mechanics, Tessa. A natural."
It was the first genuine compliment I'd ever received. I didn't know how to respond, feeling my cheeks flush.
"Starting tomorrow," he said suddenly, "I'll teach you self-defense. In South District, it's a necessary survival skill."
Over the next few days, besides helping Lisa in the kitchen, I learned basic self-defense under Michael's guidance. He taught me how to exploit an opponent's weaknesses, how to stay calm, how to escape when necessary. Each time he demonstrated a move, the physical contact made my heart race.
I began to feel a power I'd never experienced before—not just physical, but mental.
Two weeks later, Lisa suggested I should return to school.
"But," I protested, "what if my dad's men are waiting there?"
"They won't be," Michael said firmly. "I've watched the school for a week. No suspicious characters. And I'll drive you personally to make sure you're safe."
On my first day back, I stood before the mirror, barely recognizing myself. The marks had faded, Lisa had helped me buy new clothes, and my hair was no longer disheveled. But the biggest change was in my eyes—no longer filled with fear.
When Michael stopped at the school entrance, I took a deep breath, preparing to face the place that once terrified me.
"Remember, I'll pick you up at four. Any problems, call me." He handed me a simple cell phone.
In the school office, the secretary looked visibly surprised to see me. "Miss Williams, you've been absent for two weeks without notification."
"She was sick," Michael said calmly, handing over a medical certificate. "She's back now and needs to catch up."
The secretary looked at him suspiciously. "Are you her guardian?"
"Yes," Michael answered without hesitation. "If you need more information, you can contact me."
After we left the office, I whispered, "You just... lied about being my guardian?"
"It's not a lie," he answered with a smile. "Right now, I'm the one responsible for protecting you." His words sent warmth through my chest, this feeling of being protected so foreign yet so comforting.
At lunch, I sat in a corner eating the sandwich Lisa had prepared. Suddenly, a voice interrupted my thoughts.
"Hey, you're back."
I looked up to see my former classmate Eddie Ramirez standing there with his lunch tray.
"Yes," I answered briefly.
"Did you hear about John?" he asked, his voice suddenly lower.
My heart raced. "John? What about him?"
John had been my only friend at school, though we mostly just ate lunch together.
Eddie hesitated, then sat across from me. "Devin... died. Last week. In a gang shootout in South District. He was just passing by, hit by a stray bullet."
The world seemed to collapse around me. I felt sick, my sandwich falling onto the table.
"What?" I could barely breathe.
"Cops said he was just unlucky, wrong place at the wrong time," Eddie continued. "There were three shootings in the area that night. He was just one of the innocent victims."
I don't remember how I got through the rest of my classes. When the final bell rang, I mechanically packed my bag and walked toward the exit.
Michael's car was already waiting. I climbed into the passenger seat, buckled up, and said nothing. Rain began to fall, pattering against the windshield.
"How was today?" he started the car.
I didn't answer. Tears silently rolled down my cheeks.
"He's dead," I finally spoke, my voice breaking. "John's dead. He was just walking by and got caught in a gang shootout..."
Michael frowned but didn't interrupt me.
"He was just a good person, and it cost him his life," I continued, tears blurring my vision. "Why do good people always die young in this place?"
Michael pulled over and turned to me. "Tessa, listen. This world isn't kind to good people, especially in South District."
"Then why be good?" I asked through sobs.
His expression softened, but something determined remained in his eyes. "Because it's the only way we keep our dignity. I lost someone important too, just last year. I understand that pain."
I looked up at him, surprised by the sadness in his eyes. He gently reached out, his thumb wiping away tears from my face.
"How do you keep going?" I finally asked. "When does the pain stop?"
Michael looked out at the rain forming winding rivulets on the glass. "It doesn't stop," he said quietly. "But you learn to live with it, and use it to become stronger."
His hand remained on my face, warm and steady. In that moment, I suddenly wanted to lean against his shoulder, feel that safety and strength. Instead, I straightened up and nodded slightly.
"Thank you."
He started the car again. "Let's go home. Lisa made your favorite pasta."
