He shuts off his truck, and with the absence of the growl of the engine, I hear him mumble, “She’s not fucking kidding.”
He hops out of the truck, opens the back door on his side, and pulls something out. Rounding the bed of the truck, he prowls toward me, and I’m instantly aware of his problem.
“Oh.”
He shoves a black helmet toward me. “Put it on.”
“Rex, it’s not that far.”
Without a word, he glares at me, the glacial ice of his stare burning me from brain to boots.
“I like the wind in my hair,” I say in an embarrassed whisper.
“Wind? What the . . .?” He blinks and shakes his head. “First, it’s illegal. Second, your hair will look like shit when it’s splattered with your skull and brains all over the damn blacktop.”
I cringe and take the helmet. “Good point.”
“You do this often? Ride without a helmet?”
I shake my head no before sliding it over my head. Truth is I do sometimes. Tight spaces freak me out, and anything over my face feels suffocating, but the clean, spicy smell of Rex’s helmet makes it tolerable.
“Right.” He fastens the strap beneath my chin, making sure to tighten it before flipping up the face guard. “I’ll follow you.”
I nod and make a mental note to never ride without a helmet when Rex is around. Or maybe just ever.
Revving the engine, I kick back the stand and take off down the driveway. He cares about my safety. A warm feeling settles in my chest, and I smile behind the massive bulk of Rex’s helmet.
We race back to my house, and I’m actually looking forward to the lecture I’m sure I’ll get about speed limits and lane-sharing precautions. It’s possible I rode on the wrong side of safety just so I could get a lecture.
Yeah, I’m seriously digging Rex’s protective side.
I round the corner to my street and want to scream and stomp my feet like a pissed off toddler. Fuckin’ shit. Hatch’s motherfucking bike is parked in the driveway.
With a deep sign and herculean effort to hold my shit together, I park my bike. Rex pulls up behind me, his neck cranked in the direction of the Harley. I throw my leg off the bike and pull off his helmet. He gets out of his truck and meets me in the street.
“I didn’t think he’d be here,” I say, trying to keep the disappointment and pissedoffedness out of my voice.
He glares at the Harley and then turns back to me. There’s something working behind his eyes, indecision maybe? I hope he’s not thinking about going in there.
“Look, we can go grab some food, or I don’t know, um . . .” Gosh, think of something, Gia. Anything.
“Whatever we do we better get gone before Tubby issues another girl-beating smackdown.” His words are growled, and his lips curl back from his teeth in a snarl.
“Yes, yeah, let’s do that. Um, where should we go?” I slide on the helmet, showing him I’m ready to take off at his word of where we’re headed.
His expression pinches for a moment before he wipes it to indifferent. “My place.”
Say what?
“Your place?”
He doesn’t answer, but turns to head back to his truck. “Let’s go. Leave your bike.”
I pull the helmet off and practically skip to the passenger side of the truck. Inside Rex’s place, surrounded by his personal things, I’ll learn so much about him. I wonder if he’s having the same concern that I had about dirty clothes? Probably not. Guys are notorious slobs and never seem apologetic about it.
My stomach flips, and the buzz of excitement torpedoes through me. This is twice he’s let me in today. My tumbling belly lands hard with understanding.
If only I could find the strength to do the same.
*
Rex
I’m capable of a lot more than I think.
Darren’s encouragement is playing on repeat in my head. I want to try to get better, and I’d planned on taking his advice and asking her over. I just didn’t think it’d be so soon.
I’m strong under pressure, and walking up the path to my condo with Mac trailing behind me is straight up compacting. I focus on my breathing and remind myself that exposure therapy has an eighty percent success rate. That’s close to 100 percent. Almost perfect. Fuck, not close enough.
My hand shakes when I slide my key into the door. I pull it away to avoid it rattling the keys and turn to Mac. “Hey, um . . . this may sound stupid, but”—I run my hand through my hair and drop my chin—“would you mind taking your shoes off?” I risk a glance and hope she’s not horrified by my question.
She tilts her head and smiles, as if she’s waiting for me to tell the punch line.
“I’m kinda germaphobic and uh . . .” Fuck, just tell her the truth. It can’t be worse than making her think you’re some kind of pansy-ass dude who’s afraid of a microbial. I sigh in defeat and tug at my lip ring.
“Rex?”
“Look, Mac, the thing is I—dammit.” I’m capable of more than I think. “I don’t have people over.”