It takes a few minutes, but when I eventually realize that I can’t very well spend the entire night pretending to be occupied in the bathroom, I splash water on my face and open the door. I take one step into the hall before my eyes land on the leather vest crowding the space in front of me. My hands fly up in front of me and land on his hard chest. His chin is tilted downward, and his deep brown eyes are almost kind now, a slight difference from earlier at the kitchen table. His blank expression gives way to a regretful one. He lifts his hand and pushes his hair away from his beautifully scarred face and gives me what I think is supposed to be a smile.
“You ate soup.” His words are so soft and comforting. It’s lovely. I want more of this softer side, but honestly, I’ll take any side he wants to show me. Even the angry, maniacal side I know lingers just below the calm exterior he always displays around me.
“I did.”
His chest rises and falls a little quicker now, and ever so slowly he lifts his hand to cup my cheek but stops just before touching me. Just like the other night. I give him a gentle, discontented smile. My head tilts into the palm of his hand. I relish the feel of his touch. He won’t hurt me. He’ll never hurt me. I don’t even have to will away the panic. It never creeps in. For a split second, my eyes fall closed. I let my body settle into this feeling of security, something I don’t think I’ve ever had quite like this. When I open my eyes again, I find that his are closed. I want to let this moment drag out forever, but I know it will end eventually. Everything good must end.
“Did good, babe.” Cautiously, he slips his hand away from my cheek and opens his eyes. I lift my head and give him a gentle nod. I don’t want him to leave. God, I don’t want him to leave so much it hurts.
“Where are you going?” I ask. It’s none of my business. Damn it. I hate that it’s none of my business.
“Clubhouse. Party.”
“Oh.” I want to come but don’t want to ask. My lingering comment hangs in the air awkwardly. Somehow he understands that I want to go. I know he does. I can see him working out the options in his head. Leave me here, take me with him. Stay here with me. He kind of has to go. The club would probably rag on him for ditching out. That is, assuming, he doesn’t even want to be there. What do I know, anyway? Nothing, that’s what.
“We’re on my bike.” His words come out tense and uneven. He’s not happy with what he’s saying, but he does anyway. I try to hold back the squeal that builds in my throat. My cheeks heat from the effort. “You remember what I told you? Anyone caught dealing to you answers to me?”
“Yes, sir. I haven’t forgotten,” I say casually with a huge smile on my face. I can’t help it. It’s like a date, only it’s not a date. But it’s with Ian, and I’ll take whatever I can get. Something in my reply catches him off guard. His eyes darken and he smiles, a look so sinister I think Satan himself would run for cover. But I don’t run. Instead I take a step closer to him and slowly reach out for him to take my hand. He wraps his large hand around mine gently and pulls me down the hallway. It feels amazing. My stomach does flips and my heart speeds up.
I’ve always been addicted to something. As a kid, it was Barbies. As a teen, it was nail polish. Then I met Heath and it was all about him, and then the drinking and the drugs, and then the no swearing. And now it’s Ian and getting better.
He’s my favorite addiction to date.
Chapter 7
We walk out of the house hand in hand just in time to see Grady and Duke take off down the driveway and speed off down the road. The deafening growl of their bikes quiets as they disappear in the distance. And it’s just us. Beside me, Ian lets out a heavy breath. He’s not relaxed, exactly, but he seems to be settling into something. I like him like this, when he seems so settled and just here in the moment. Just us. We won’t be alone for long, but I like the little bit I get.
“You ride?”
I shake my head. He turns his face toward mine and waits as though I haven’t answered him. Maybe he thinks I haven’t. I guess I’ve been silent too long, because he squeezes my hand and continues to stare at me with searching eyes. I shake my head again, and this time he sees it and nods his head in return. He drops my hand and climbs on his bike. He nudges the kickstand up and holds the bike upright, offering me a helmet with an outstretched hand.
“Wear this, then climb on like I did and place your feet here,” he says and points to a cylindrical black peg that juts out of the bike. “Don’t drop your feet and let your body lean into the turns.”
He’s patient with me as I stand here and psych myself up. I’ve had maybe a fantasy or two about a sexy man on a motorcycle, but until Ian it was just that—a passing fantasy that went as quickly as it came.
With his pointer finger, he summons me forward and sets the helmet on the tank between his legs. His eyes aren’t kind, exactly, and they’re not dark and sexy. They’re something else that I’m desperate to place but can’t. I close the distance between us and stand before him. Slowly, he reaches out and brushes a lock of hair from my face and tucks it behind my ear.