“Where did you go?” he asks sharply and without regard to volume. I simply wave the cup of coffee while giving him a flat look. I mean, hello. “Come on,” he says, reaching out for me.
Even though I’d love nothing more than to climb on the back of his bike again and to drift off into that exhilarating freedom, I can’t do this. Ryan is like a game of Russian roulette. It doesn’t matter how it ends, it’s not going to end well. I shake my head from side to side in protest. He takes a step forward, puts his hands on his hips, and squares his shoulders.
“I’m not fucking around. Get on the bike.” The way he growls when he says bike lights a fire in my belly. I don’t know what his deal is, but I really want to find out. And if I don’t get on the bike, I might never figure him out. But I’m not about to just give up and act like the little girl he’s so keen on accusing me of being. I take a deep breath, gathering what little courage I have, and I purse my lips, then shake my head. Bringing the cup of coffee to my mouth, I take a sip. Before I can even lower the cup, he’s on me, breathing down on my face. With his knees bent, his eyes search mine, cold and demanding. Inwardly, I shrink, but do my best not to let that show in my body language. Looking up at him, I move my occupied arm out of the way and lean into him.
“You must be joking.” But he’s not. He rips the cup of coffee out of my hand, letting it fall to the pavement. I want to pick it up and throw it away properly, but I have no doubt that’s a bad move. He takes my hand and drags me toward the resting Harley. Without letting go of me, he swings himself onto his seat and then gives my arm a tug. I climb on after him, just as unsure of what I’m doing as the first time I attempted this. Wrapping my arms around his midsection, I settle in.
He starts up the Harley and navigates it around the wary people, then out onto Laurel Street. We breeze through narrow residential streets, eventually finding our way back to Main Street. Neither of us attempt to say anything as he guides us through a part of town I’ve never been in. The north side of Fort Bragg is separated by a river inlet from the rest of town. Only a few businesses and some higher-end townhomes reside on this end. We travel right on through the north end of town and keep going. I curl into his back and rest my cheek against his leather vest.
We ride for a good half an hour until the tension in Ryan’s back dissipates and he turns the bike around and we head back to Fort Bragg. We’re close to town when he veers off to the right on a quiet road that hugs the last bit of land before you hit water. A new housing development is going up on both sides of the road, which will effectively cut off the view of the ocean from Main Street. I’ve barely been here two months and already I find myself attached to the mostly untarnished view. I scowl at the construction crews as they outline the lots and move their equipment around on the dirt.
Slowing down, we hang a right onto a dirt road that doesn’t look drivable. Not that it matters, since Ryan clearly knows what he’s doing and where he’s going. Heading directly toward the water now, we come to a stop just as my nerves start to frazzle by how close we are to the shoreline. Cutting the engine, Ryan waits patiently as I stumble off the bike and cling to him for support. Now that I’m on my feet, I take a step back from him. He’s brought me to a beautiful place, and so far he’s stopped being an asshole, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t capable of dropping me off the cliff. Not that I think he’d really do that or anything.
Off of his Harley and onto his feet now, Ryan stares at me with a blank expression on his face. He reaches his hand out, palm up, and gives me a short nod. I don’t even think about it. I place my hand in his instantly and slide up beside him. We walk hand-in-hand down the rest of the trail, following it as the dirt path narrows and dips until we’re standing at the end, with the ocean directly in front of us.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, appreciating the gesture.
“Did you fuck him?” He asks quietly. And just like that, just like everything with him, all of the beauty surrounding us is shattered, leaving behind splinters that I know I’m going to be stepping on for weeks. Because just like that, I’m reminded who he is, but more importantly, I’m reminded who he isn’t. He isn’t romantic; he isn’t gentle. He’s pragmatic. I have nowhere to run out here. I yank my hand away and fold my arms over my chest.
“Why do you care?” I ask, folding in on myself. I’m such an idiot, getting on the bike with him, letting him order me around. Old habits die hard, I guess.
“Because I do.”