Текст книги "Nice Girls Don't Ride"
Автор книги: Roni Loren
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Titles by Roni Loren
Crash into You
Melt into You
Fall into You
Caught Up in You
Need You Tonight
Not Until You
Nothing Between Us
Novellas
Still Into You
Forever Starts Tonight
Nice Girls Don’t Ride
Roni Loren
InterMix Books, New York
INTERMIX BOOKS
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
NICE GIRLS DON’T RIDE
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
InterMix eBook edition / April 2015
Copyright © 2015 by Roni Loren.
Excerpt from Call On Me copyright © 2015 by Roni Loren.
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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-19831-9
INTERMIX
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and New American Library, divisions of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,
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Version_1
Contents
Titles by Roni Loren
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1: Natalie
Chapter 2: Natalie
Chapter 3: Monroe
Chapter 4: Natalie
Chapter 5: Natalie
Chapter 6: Monroe
Chapter 7: Natalie
Chapter 8: Natalie
Chapter 9: Monroe
Chapter 10: Natalie
Chapter 11: Monroe
Chapter 12: Natalie
Epilogue: Natalie
Sneak Peek of Call On Me
About the Author
Chapter 1
Natalie
Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday, dear . . .
I groan and lean back against the guardrail, shielding my eyes from the piercing sunlight. How exactly should I finish that?
Girl who currently smells like sweat and roadkill?
Girl about to go broke paying for this mess?
Girl whose boyfriend will not answer his goddamned phone?
My fingers move over the screen as I text Caleb again. Where r u???
I stare at my phone, willing a response out of it, but the screen goes black before there’s any answering ding. Caleb had warned me that he was going to be cutting it close for our date tonight. And I know his internship at the local campaign office sometimes runs late when they’re prepping for a rally, but he should be out by now.
My fingers move over the screen again. R U secretly Superman in ur off hours? Come on, u can tell me. If ur saving the world, I’ll understand.
Of course, there’s still no response. And now my neck is prickling with not just sweat but anxiety. What if something happened to him? What if he was in an accident? What if—?
I stop myself before the thoughts spiral, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. Cool it, Nat. But that little exercise only gets me a lungful of the dead skunk that’s roasting in the heat a few yards away from me on the side of the highway. Blech. I press my fingers over my mouth, fighting a wave of nausea.
I check the clock on my phone for what seems like the hundredth time. The roadside-assistance lady said they would contact a local garage and get me a tow right away. But it’s been over an hour, and the only cars that have passed by have either ignored me or sent catcalls flying my way. Because, of course, my piece-of-crap car had to break down when I’m all dressed up in a low-cut dress and heels for my birthday dinner. Yay for timing.
One guy had at least offered to help and had seemed nice enough, but I’ve seen how those horror movies end. Girl on the side of the road accepts help from a seemingly harmless stranger, only to have her organs carved out later that night. No, thanks.
A grinding of tires on gravel draws my attention upward. A black tow truck rolls past me on the road and pulls to the side, sending a cloud of dust in its wake. I keep my phone clutched in my hand, quickly check the can of Mace in my purse, and then push off the guardrail. The side of the truck says Billy’s Custom Cycles and Auto Repair. There’s a tattoo-style logo of a motorcycle on fire, and I know that it’s definitely not the name of the repair shop the roadside assistance service gave me. It had been some big chain—AutoPlus or something like that. A little shimmer of nerves goes through me and I stop where I am, my heels sinking into the gravel.
The front door of the tow truck opens and a tattooed arm appears before anything else. For some reason, my eyes lock onto pieces of the man instead of the whole—like I can’t handle the entire view quite yet, only snapshots. That muscular arm as the driver slides out of the truck. The worn black motorcycle boots that hit the ground. I force myself to look up, tracking along the faded jeans and fitted black T-shirt, until I collide with a dark blue gaze.
“Looks like you need a ride.”
The deep voice startles me for a second and snaps me back into the moment like a slingshot. Ping! Pay attention, Nat. Now is not the time to let my guard down. “No, thank you, I don’t. I already have another shop on the way.”
His gaze tracks over my dusty dress, slow and lazy-like, before he lifts a dark brow. “How long have you been waiting? It’s pretty hot out here.”
The once-over makes me more than a little self-conscious. He can’t be all that much older than me, early twenties for sure, but something about him is intimidating as hell. “I don’t know. Not long. I’m sure they’ll be here any second.”
He crosses his arms over his chest and eyes my car, which has chosen this moment to start smoking from under the hood—as if it senses help in its midst and is crying out for it. “What shop is coming?”
I brush at the skirt of my dress, trying to give my nervous hands something to do. I don’t want to look worried or scared or show him that I’m melting in this brutal Texas heat. “AutoPlus, AutoMart . . .”
He scowls. “Autoland.”
“That’s it.”
“You might as well set up a tent then. They take forever to get to calls, and they’ll charge you twice as much as we would. Plus, they close at six. They’re just going to tow you in and then lock up for the night.”
“Says the guy who wants to make a buck on a girl stranded on the side of the road.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Hey, princess, I’m just trying to be a nice guy and get you to your”—he looks me up and down again—“sorority party on time. I get paid the same either way.”
Princess?Sorority party? My eyes narrow and I give him my own head-to-toe look, taking in the messy dark hair, the tattoos, the heavy boots, the finely shaped . . . I snatch the thought back before I can go there. “Look, Son of Anarchy, I appreciate the nice guy offer, but how do I even know you’re legit?”
He snorts. “You think I drive a tow truck around for fun? Call the number on the side of the truck if you want. But otherwise, I’ve got better stuff to do than stand here in the heat, smelling roadkill. Two minutes, princess. I’ll be in the truck. You want a tow and a ride? You get in. If not, good luck with Autoland.”
He turns to go, and I feel a little dart of panic at being left alone again—even if he’s not exactly the company I want. This isn’t the best part of Austin, and the sun is on its way down. “Wait, what’s your name? You know, so I can verify.”
He doesn’t turn around but calls back, “Monroe.”
I dial the number to the shop and, of course, they verify that Monroe works for them and is driving the truck today. The guy on the phone sounds amused by my questions. And his reaction makes me realize that I’m being paranoid, that my nerves are officially frayed, and it’s making me act like a bitch. I thank the guy on the phone, hang up, and take a steadying breath. This is going to be okay. Not everyone is out to take advantage. Some people actually do things to be helpful without ulterior motives.
My mother would laugh her ass off at that logic. Everybody’s got an agenda, Nattie.
I straighten the neckline of my dress, hike my purse up my shoulder, and walk over to the tow truck with as much dignity as I can muster for a sweaty girl in a dusty dress. Monroe hasn’t climbed back into the cab, but is instead leaning against the front bumper and watching the cars zoom by on the overpass up ahead. He doesn’t look my way. “Verified that I’m not a serial killer?”
“Verified that you work for Billy’s. The serial-killer part is yet to be determined.”
He smiles out at the horizon. “Want to check the backseat for weapons or body parts?”
“I have a feeling you’d be too sneaky to leave such obvious evidence lying around. And if you aren’t that clever, I’m going to be seriously disappointed in myself if I fall victim to a dumb serial killer.”
He chuckles and it changes his whole face, warming it. When he turns his head, his blue eyes meet mine and my stomach tightens a little. I do my best not to let my reaction show on my face. Last thing I need is him thinking that I’m interested in him. Because, of course, I’m not. I’m totally not. If there’s an opposite of my type, it’s this guy. And plus, I have Caleb. Cute, smart, on-his-way-to-big-things Caleb.
Caleb, who won’t answer his goddamned phone.
Monroe pushes himself off the bumper. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult, princess, but I’ll take it you’re going to ride with me.”
“Yes. But only because I can’t handle the dead-skunk smell for another minute.”
“I’m preferable to skunk guts? The flattery just rolls off you, doesn’t it?”
The jab lands squarely. I press my fingers to the space between my eyes and rub. “Sorry. I’m really not trying to be a bitch.”
“It just comes natural, then?”
My eyes snap open and I’m ready to hurl an insult back, but I find him wearing a playful grin and clamp my lips shut.
He angles a thumb toward the truck. “Get in . . .”
“Natalie,” I supply.
“Natalie. And kick the A/C on. Getting your car hooked up is gonna take a few minutes. You may want to call someone for a ride, too, because there’s no guarantee we can get this fixed tonight. I’m assuming you have plans.”
I glance down at my outfit, suddenly self-conscious about the sexy getup. It’s not my typical style, but tonight was supposed to be special, and I had wanted to knock Caleb on his butt. He’s been so wrapped up in work and school lately that I’ve felt a little like furniture. So I borrowed my roommate’s dress with its plunging neckline and treated myself to the new risqué lingerie I’m wearing beneath. I’m not exactly Ms. Vixen normally, so Caleb would’ve never seen it coming. Now it’s all a waste.
“I have a date with my boyfriend,” I say to Monroe.
“Right. So, he can pick you up?”
“He’s not answering his phone. But I’m sure I’ll get him soon.”
Monroe makes some noncommittal noise and nods. “I’m going to get to work. You go and cool off. There’s bottled water in the ice chest in the backseat.”
“Thanks.”
Before getting in the truck, I find myself watching Monroe walk back toward my car. He’s easily over six feet tall but doesn’t move in that awkward, hunched way that most of the taller guys on campus move. There’s an easy confidence to him, like he’s fully grown into his body and taken ownership—a man’s walk. My eyes follow him as he pops the hood of my car and leans over. The hem of his shirt lifts as he bends, exposing a strip of tanned, muscular lower back. I find myself wondering what it would feel like beneath my fingers and if he has any more ink hidden under there . . . I force my eyes away.
What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t have random illicit thoughts about complete strangers. Especially not strangers who have tattoos and call me princess.
I shake my head and pull open the door on the passenger side. Maybe I have heatstroke or something.
I lay my head back against the seat and close my eyes. But all I can see is the image of my new mechanic pulling his shirt all the way off, sweat dripping off him, me putting my hands . . .
I sit straight up.
Yep, definitely heatstroke. Has to be.
Chapter 2
Natalie
An hour later, I’m ready to climb the walls of the body shop as I wait for the verdict on my car. Monroe disappeared when we got here, and I’ve been stuck listening to the same ten eighties songs over and over again with the occasional Britney song thrown in for variety. I imagine it’s the soundtrack in hell.
When I realize I’m peeling the protective cover off my phone with my fidgeting fingers, I set it down on the ugly orange chair next to me and peer at the clock above the service desk again. Almost seven.
The reservation at Madrid is for eight. I’ve wanted to try that restaurant for a long time, and Caleb had said he’d treat me for my birthday. So I’d booked a table two months ahead and had been counting down the days. The fact that Caleb, Mr. Penny Pincher (despite having a fat trust fund), is willing to shell out for an expensive meal has had me wondering if he’s finally going to ask me to move in with him. It feels like the right time since we’ve been seeing each other for almost a year and we’ll both be graduating soon. Plus, it’ll save me from having to move home for the summer or find another place since my roommate’s sister is going to be staying with her over the break.
If nothing else, Caleb is imminently practical, so moving in makes sense. But now I have no idea where he is, and even if he does get here soon, the plans are probably off anyway because I can’t walk into a fancy restaurant smelling like roadkill and auto repair shop—which is turning out to be some weird combination of stale coffee, those scented pine trees that hang from rearview mirrors, and motor oil. Or is it axle grease? I’m not sure what vehicular thing actually produces such a smell, but I know I’ll forever think of the scent as eau de broken car.
I bounce my knee and fight the urge to gnaw on a fingernail. Lyle, the guy in charge of the desk, had closed up about twenty minutes ago. But when I’d basically begged that they try to get my car fixed tonight, he said Monroe was going to work on it a little longer. But Lyle hadn’t stuck around to wait with me. He’d pulled the chain on the flashing Open light and had waved good-bye. So now it’s just me and that endless loop of songs. Hit me, Britney, one more time.
Of course, the longer I sit in the closed shop, the more I start thinking slasher-movie thoughts again—the curse of being a creative writing major with a penchant for horror fiction. I can see the story line now . . . Stranded girl with a boyfriend who won’t answer his phone. Mysterious but strangely sexy mechanic probably rigging her car so it would never allow a getaway. No weapons available except a can of Billy’s Custom Cycles ink pens and an empty can of Sprite.
I eye the grimy window that leads out to the shop but can only see the top of my car. Monroe hasn’t given me an update in a while, but I’m guessing the outlook isn’t good. My phone rings, making me jump. When I see the name pop up on the screen, I grab for the thing like it’s the last phone on earth. “Oh my God, finally.”
“Natalie, hey, so sorry,” Caleb says, sounding out of breath and barely audible over the hum of voices in the background. “I just got all of your messages. We’ve been buried. The rally site for tomorrow had to be changed and Carolyn assigned me all these duties. She’s never given me so much responsibility, and . . . well, I couldn’t let her down. I thought I’d be able to get it all taken care of, but I lost track of time and now I’m stuck out here. Man, I’m really sorry. I know it’s your birthday. I swear I’ll make it up to you . . .”
“You’re not coming to get me?” I say, failing to keep the edge of you’ve-got-to-be-freaking-kidding-me out of my tone.
He sighs. “I’m not in my car. I rode with Randy. Can you call Jess?”
“She’s gone home for the weekend. I told you—”
“Baby, look, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to call a cab or something. They need me for a few more hours. And I’ve got to go. But I promise, I’ll make it up to you next week, okay? Love ya.”
“But—” The phone clicks before I can protest. I pull it away from my ear and stare at it like it bit me. “Seriously?”
A cab? Did he forget we weren’t living in New York? This is Austin. Unless you’re at the airport or a downtown hotel, there are no cabs rolling around looking for passengers. I’d have to call a service, which would take forever to get here. And it would cost me a fortune from this far out.
“Your knight heading over on his white horse?”
The low, rumbling voice jerks my attention upward. I automatically clutch my phone to my chest like I don’t want anyone to see that it’s let me down. Monroe gives me a ghost of a smile.
“I don’t need a white horse. I need my car.”
“Yeah, well, about that. I’ve been trying to work a miracle.” He wipes his hands on a dirty rag and tucks it in the back pocket of the grease-stained blue jumpsuit he put on over his other clothes. The move looks smooth and natural, like he’s been doing this forever and the towel is somehow a part of him. “But I’m afraid there aren’t going to be any angels singing tonight.”
“But that Lyle guy told me you were making progress.”
“Progress, yes. Success? No. Believe me, I tried to do a few work-arounds to see if I could get her going. But you need a part that we don’t have in stock. I’m going to have to order it, and it’ll take at least a day to get here.”
My shoulders sag. “Son of a bitch.”
“I’ve been called worse. But it doesn’t change the fact that I can’t do anything about it tonight.” He walks from behind the counter to lean against the front of it. His arms cross over his chest as he considers me.
I try not to notice how the grease smudge on his jaw makes him look both menacing and distractingly attractive. God, what is my deal tonight? This guy’s giving me bad news, and my hormones decide to go rogue. Maybe it’s the Britney songs.
“My boyfriend got held up at work. He can’t come pick me up.”
“I thought you had a date tonight.”
“We did. But there’s some crisis at his internship.”
He frowns. “He’s leaving his girl stranded for a crisis at a job that he’s not even getting paid for? Nice guy.”
I press my lips together, my defenses rising. “He takes his job seriously. He’s not going to bail on his responsibilities.”
Monroe takes the clipboard of paperwork I’d filled out and left on the front counter. “Looks like he’s bailing on you, princess. In my book, that’s dropping a pretty important responsibility.”
My spine stiffens. If I had feathers, they’d be fluffed. “Last I checked, it’s not 1952. I’m his girlfriend, not a responsibility. I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can.” His eyes skim over the yellow papers. “But that doesn’t mean . . . Ah, come on, really?”
“What?”
He flips the clipboard toward me and points at a line on the insurance verification form. “It’s your birthday. The dude is ditching you for work on your birthday?”
“It’s not a big deal . . . I mean, we can do it some other—”
He tosses the clipboard back onto the counter. “You can lie to yourself, princess, but you’re not going to convince me. Twenty-one is supposed to be one of the best birthdays. And no girl gets herself all, you know”—he waves a hand, indicating my outfit—“because it’s a no-big-deal night.”
I clench my jaw.
Monroe walks over and swipes the phone out of my hand. “What’s Romeo’s name?”
“Hey, give that back.” I jump to my feet and reach for my phone.
But he steps back and holds it up. “Smile.”
I grit my teeth. “Give. It. Back.”
“Pissed and mean, even better.” He grins and takes a pic with my phone.
“What the hell?” I stalk toward him, but he backpedals until he’s behind the counter, scrolling through my phone.
“There it is, Caleb with the little heart symbol next to it,” Monroe says triumphantly. His thumbs fly over the screen, typing. “Hope . . . work . . . is . . . worth . . . missing . . . this.”
“Oh my God.” I lunge around the counter, but Monroe slides out of reach and shows me the screen. He hasn’t hit Send on the message yet, but the pic of me is there—cheeks flushed, eyes a little wild, and my cleavage on prominent display. I don’t look like myself. I look kind of dangerous. And hot. Go me.
He slides the phone across the counter toward me. “Hit Send, princess. It’ll be good for the soul. Make that dude suffer for blowing you off. Because, believe me, when he sees that picture, he’ll suffer.”
My hand wraps around my phone. “I can’t. I don’t . . .”
“What?”
“I don’t want him to think I’m mad.”
He scoffs. “Come on. You are mad. May as well be honest about it.”
“Yeah, but, we don’t have that kind of relationship, and I don’t want to look like . . . needy or high-maintenance or psycho or whatever.”
It sounds lame coming out, but I’m just not explaining it well. Caleb always tells me how much he loves how calm and cool I am, how nothing seems to ruffle me. Very Jackie O., Natalie, he’s said more than once. And from Mr. Political Science Major, there’s no higher compliment.
I love that he sees me that way and not as the girl from that trashy Bourne family like I’ve been all my life. Caleb thinks I’m elegant, a lady. And I want to be that for him. So I’ve learned to tame my fiery temper when things don’t go the way I want.
But, of course, someone like Monroe won’t understand that. He’s probably never edited a word in his life.
He smirks and shakes his head. “Right. God forbid you make him think bad things. You didn’t seem to have any problem giving me an earful when we met.”
“You’re not him.”
“No doubt about that. You two must have a very . . . nice relationship.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He rolls his neck, looking tired all of a sudden, and turns his back to me. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. It’s been a long day and I’m just talking shit. Give me a minute, and I’ll take you wherever you need to go.”
He heads toward the office that sits off the main waiting area and starts unbuttoning his coveralls, peeling them down as he goes and revealing the cleaner clothes beneath.
I follow him, phone still clutched in my hand. “No, go ahead and tell me what you’re thinking. It’s not like you’ve held back yet.”
He kicks his boots off and steps out of the coveralls. “You just didn’t strike me as the type to be so worried about making waves or telling it like it is. You damn near bit my head off when you met me, and you don’t even know me. I guess I’m surprised you’d let the boyfriend get away with ditching you so easily.”
“He didn’t—” But before I can finish, my phone dings.
I glance down at the new email. It’s from the restaurant. Damn, I probably should’ve called and canceled. Can they charge you for not showing up? I slide my thumb over the message.
Good news! Your request to move your reservation from 8:00 to 8:15 has been approved. Thank you for using TableOne to make your reservations.
I stare down at the message, reading it again.
“Something wrong?” Monroe asks as he leans over to a small locker and pulls out a pair of beat-up black Chucks to replace his boots.
“I’m not—” I shake my head. “Looks like there’s some glitch with the dinner reservation I had tonight. I probably should call and cancel.”
He shrugs. “Whatever. Mind doing it outside? I’m going to lock up and set the alarm.”
I nod numbly. “Yeah, sure.”
He pulls on his shoes, and I head outside, dialing the number for the restaurant when I reach the parking lot. I listen to it ring and ring as I watch Monroe through the window. He’s flipping off lights and checking doors. Finally, someone on the other end of the line answers.
“Thank you for calling Madrid, how may I help you?”
“Hi, there was a reservation for two tonight at eight under the name Caleb Dewhurst and—”
“Yes, ma’am, we moved it to eight fifteen, per request, and even got you a table on the roof terrace.”
“But I didn’t make the request—”
“Oh, well, Mr. Dewhurst called a few minutes ago and adjusted it. So you’re all set.”
“I– Wait, he called recently?”
“Uh.” The woman sounds a little flustered now, like she knows she’s given something away. “Yes, a few minutes ago.”
My skin goes cold, and in my peripheral vision, I see Monroe stepping into the parking lot and locking the outside door.
“Did you need anything else, ma’am?”
I shake myself out of the frozen state I’ve entered. “No, that’s all right.”
I press End and my hand lowers to my side.
Monroe closes the distance between us. “Everything okay?”
My heart is beating fast, and I’m chilled despite the humid evening. Surely, it must be some mix-up at the restaurant. But I find myself saying, “Could you drive through downtown before bringing me home?”
His tilts his head. “Yeah, sure. How come?”
I take a deep breath and drop my phone into my purse. “Because he kept the goddamned reservation, and suddenly, I’m not feeling very nice at all.”
Monroe shakes his head, his mouth in a grim line. I expect him to say I told you so, but thankfully he refrains. Probably a good thing because I kind of feel like punching something right now. And if he’d said that, it might’ve been him.
“Come on.” He motions for me to follow him to the back of the building, and I stalk after him, girl on a mission.
But my bravado and brilliant plan only last about thirty seconds. Because what greets me in the back parking lot is absolutely not an option. “Oh, hell no.”
Monroe swings his leg over the seat of a motorcycle with handlebars that look way too high to be comfortable, and tosses me a helmet. “Sorry, princess, this is the only ride I’ve got. Lyle took the truck home.”
“I’m in a dress.”
“Just tuck the fabric underneath your legs to hold it down. You’ll be up against me, so it’s not like anyone’s going to see anything.”
Up against him. God. “I’m not riding on a motorcycle.”
He shrugs. “There’s a bus stop at the corner that will bring you downtown. Though, this isn’t the best neighborhood at night, so I wouldn’t recommend it. And hey, if you’re really on a mission for revenge, riding up on the back of one of these with your legs wrapped around some other dude could be kind of badass.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. I can feel my face flushing. Wrapping my legs around him is so not a good idea. I scramble for an excuse. “You know how dangerous these things are?”
He laughs. “Thanks, Mom. Duly noted. I promise to go the speed limit and observe all traffic laws.” He raises his hand in the Scout’s Honor mode, three fingers in the air. “But have you ever heard that saying about beggars not being choosers. You want a ride or not?”
“Goddamn it.” I shove the ridiculous helmet on my head.
His smile screams victory. “Oh, and if you need me to make out with you or anything for show when we drive up, I can find it in my giving nature to make that sacrifice for you.”
I give him a droll look. “Your generosity knows no bounds.”
He nods solemnly. “I’m a giver, birthday girl.”
“Just get me over to Willows Avenue without killing me.”
He pats the seat behind him. “Hop on, princess. You’re safe with me.”
What a lie that is. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt less safe around someone. I look down at my dress and then the bike, trying to figure out logistics. “Turn your head.”
“Of course,” he says with a smug smile.
He turns to face forward, but when I adjust my dress and swing my leg over the bike, I see a flash of red and realize I’ve probably given him an R-rated show in the rearview mirror. Fantastic. What a day to choose to wear lacy lingerie. But if he saw anything, he gives no indication.
I situate myself on the seat, tucking my loose skirt beneath my thighs, then look for a place to hold on. But, of course, there’s nothing to grab onto except him. Feeling more than a little awkward, I place my hands on his hips.
“Come on, you’re going to have to hold on better than that.” He takes my hands and guides my arms around his abdomen. His very hard, very flat abdomen. My body is automatically drawn forward to accommodate the hold, and my chest presses up against his back. God help me.
Warmth bleeds from him and through the very thin fabric of my dress and bra. And I’m intensely aware of every single place where my body is touching his. He smells faintly of grease, like the WD-40 I used on my bike as a kid, but somehow it smells good on him instead of acrid like it did back then. I kind of want to press my nose to his neck.
He turns on the bike, the beast of a thing rumbling to life beneath us, and heat that has nothing to do with the weather is quickly chasing away the internal chill that the phone call caused. My thighs are pressed along the edge of his, and there isn’t much of anything between the vibration of the bike and the awareness building between my legs. A faint oh escapes me.
“She’s got a lot of power,” he says, pride in his voice.
The noise and my own whirling thoughts are almost too much to talk over, so I just nod.
“Ready?”
“No,” I shout back.
He chuckles and I feel it against my chest. “Relax, Nat. I’ve got you.”
The bike jumps forward, and without thinking, I press my face into his shoulder and squeeze tight.
