Vincent slammed the gas pump back into its slot, muttering curses under his breath. The number glowing on the screen mocked him. Again, more cash down the drain.
"Gasoline," he growled, stalking back toward the motorcycle, "is bleeding me dry. Evaporating right out of my damn wallet."
Marcus stood beside the bike, head tilted, looking as innocent as a child waiting for a candy bar. His card was still clutched in his hand, useless as ever, "I thought I could pay this time."
Vincent's eyes narrowed. "Yeah? Tell that to the card machine that nearly screamed fraud at me." He mimicked the flat, robotic voice: Transaction declined. Wrong pin code. He flung his arms up. "Do you know how many times I've heard that in the past week, cariño? Feels like a cruel joke."
"I put the PIN wrong again," Marcus admitted, lips quirking into a faint, guilty smile. "Sorry, Tom."
Vincent's jaw ticked. He yanked his helmet on with more force than necessary. "How many four-digit numbers can there possibly be, cariño? You've tried fifty and managed to hit none of them."
Marcus just shrugged, slipping his notebook back into his pocket like it solved everything. "It'll come to me."
Vincent straddled the bike, muttering, "Yeah, hopefully before I sell my organs to keep this thing running."
"Oh." Marcus blinked slowly. "I tried."
"You tried," Vincent echoed, pressing his palms against the roof of the car. "Do you have any idea what it feels like to be three seconds away from tasting millions, and then boom—declined? Again?" He mimed an explosion with his hands. "Kaboom. Gone. Wallet crying. Heart bleeding."
Marcus only shrugged, lips twitching as though Vincent's meltdown was mildly entertaining. "Millions ?? What millions ?? "
Vincent groaned, shoving the receipt into his pocket.
Thought in mind,"ohhh god , please save me ( not just save .. also bless me with millions ) from this billionaire Alzheimer's man who doesn't even knows he owns millions in his account."
He spoke , his voice almost exhausted, "You know what? Forget it. Just—get in the bike before I start charging you rent for existing."
He fired up the engine, the rumble vibrating through his bones. Marcus climbed on behind him, arms looping loosely around Vincent's waist.
The road stretched out before them, a strip of cracked asphalt cutting through endless countryside. Fields blurred past, wind slapping against Vincent's cheeks. For a while, neither spoke—only the steady hum of the engine filling the silence.
But Vincent's mind wouldn't rest. His money was thinning, his patience was cracking, and the boy behind him—this rich little Alzheimer's mess—remained a puzzle with missing pieces.
Finally, he spoke, voice cutting through the rush of wind. "Tell me something, cariño."
Marcus's chin lifted slightly, resting against Vincent's shoulder. "Hmm?"
"Where the hell are we going, exactly?" Vincent's tone was casual, but his grip on the handlebars tightened. "You keep saying we're traveling, but traveling to where? What's the destination?"
"Oh." Marcus blinked, as though the question had never occurred to him. "James's house."
Vincent's brow arched. "James? And who is James? Another imaginary friend? A ghost? Maybe your Alzheimer's brain just rolled the dice and landed on 'J' today."
"James is my cousin." Marcus said it simply, like it was obvious.
Vincent barked a short laugh. "Sure. And is this cousin James real, or is your glitchy mind inventing him like an imaginary friend?"
Marcus didn't even bristle at the jab. He just nodded calmly. "He's real. I remember him clearly. He works in a dress store."
"A dress store?" Vincent arched a brow, smirking despite himself and barked a laugh,"Oh, that's rich. A cousin named James, in retail. Sure. Next you'll tell me he's Cinderella's tailor. Be honest, cariño. Are you absolutely sure you're not just inventing relatives like you invent memories?
Or what ? we're traveling halfway across the world to buy a ballgown?"
Marcus shook his head. "Not exactly. I need to see him. He'll understand."
Vincent tilted his head just enough to catch the faint determination in Marcus's expression. For once, there was no fog in his eyes, no flicker of doubt. Just steady certainty.
Vincent leaned back slightly, his voice dry. "Uh-huh. And where does this very real cousin live?"
Marcus hesitated for only a second before replying, casual as if he were announcing what he wanted for dinner. "About two more days' ride from here."
Vincent almost swerved the bike off the road. "Two days?"
Marcus nodded, utterly unfazed. "If we don't stop too much. Three if we do."
Vincent groaned, slamming a hand against the handlebars. "You've got to be kidding me. Two more days? With what money? Do you think this machine runs on air, cariño?"
Marcus tightened his arms around Vincent's waist, resting his cheek against his back. "But you'll still take me, right? You always do."
Vincent's chest constricted. Damn him. Damn his soft words and trustful tone. Vincent wanted to yell, to snap, to remind Marcus that this whole mess was a colossal drain on him. But the warmth of those arms, the quiet faith in Marcus's voice—it froze the words in his throat.
Instead, he spat out the only thing he could manage. "You better hope your cousin James is real, cariño. Otherwise, I'll leave you stranded at the next gas station."
Marcus smiled faintly, not taking the threat seriously. "You won't."
Vincent cursed under his breath, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Two more days. Two more days of dwindling money, of questions without answers, of a boy who couldn't even remember him half the time.
And yet… he didn't slow down.
The bike roared forward, cutting through the night, carrying both of them deeper into the unknown.
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PLEASE SUPPORT PRETTY LADIES AND HANDSOME GENTLEMEN,
WITH FRUSTRATION,
VINCENT😬
WITH CALMNESS,
MARCUS😇