“Come with me?” Chevy asks.
I press tighter to him as if there was actual space between us. “Anywhere.”
“All I got is my bike.”
And my knee is bad, plus I haven’t been on the back of a bike since Dad died.
“But I won’t go far. I promise.”
My throat knots. The back of a bike, but it’s with Chevy and he needs me. “Then let’s go.”
The air rushes out of my lungs when Chevy leans down and swings me up in his arms. He walks fast for his bike, probably wishing that no one from the Terror is watching us. That for a few minutes, we can find a way to be completely alone in our grief.
His Harley is a beautiful piece of machinery. It’s the bike his father rode and it was given to Chevy the day he turned sixteen. He cares for this bike with the same loving care he shows when he touches me.
Chevy sets me on the ground, draws his leather jacket off his shoulders, places it on mine, pulls his keys out of his pocket, and the moment he’s on, he offers his hand to me.
Countless times, Chevy has given me his jacket, but I don’t remember it being so warm or the rich scent of spices so thick and comforting.
I accept his hand, ease onto the seat so I don’t place weight on my bad knee, then swing the good one over to the other side. Even though I haven’t ridden a motorcycle in months, I’m still a biker girl at heart. Because of that, I have never stopped placing a hair tie in my pocket just in case.
I tie my hair at the nape of my neck, then wrap my arms around Chevy’s stomach so I can hide my face in his back. He doesn’t need to see the wince as I position the foot of my bad leg on the rest.
Chevy starts the bike, the engine rumbles beneath me and in seconds we’re gone. I lift my head and enjoy the wind on my face, my hair rippling in the currents, the way my body vibrates with the powerful machine. The feel of Chevy’s strong body beneath my touch is heaven and the poetic memories of freedom that only being on the back of a bike bring flood to my mind.
There’s a spark within me, a jolt of hope and joy. Happiness. It’s there, it’s almost within reach. Chevy tackles the curve at breakneck speed as if we’re chasing happiness down with all we’re worth.
I rest my chin on his shoulder, then turn my head to kiss Chevy’s neck. He reaches back and squeezes my thigh. I love you, Chevy. I love you so much it hurts. I love you so much I’m not sure I’ll ever love anyone as much as I love you.
I don’t say any of that, but I do press my lips to his neck and kiss him again.
CHEVY
VIOLET LAUGHS AS I juggle her, open the door to my home, then kick it shut with my foot. The sound is like the best buzz I’ve experienced. The best way to end a crappy day. The best way to end any day is with Violet in my arms.
Once inside, I gently set her on the couch and I pause as I straighten. She’s beautiful. Fire-red hair, eyes that rival any clear blue sky, skin so soft it could be satin and she’s smiling. Violet’s smiling. She’s always been the most beautiful creature on the face of the planet, but smiling, Violet is a queen.
“How’s your knee?” I ask.
“Okay. Little sore, but it’ll be fine once I stretch it out.”
Violet shifts and lays her leg on the love seat, but her knee is still bent. The living room is only big enough for the blue love seat, a twenty-inch flat-screen on the wall and the brown leather recliner we found on clearance because of the rip on the back.
For the first ten years of my life, we rented apartments. But Mom scraped together enough money to buy this condo. Since then, Mom’s spent close to eight years making this place a home with its vibrant wall colors, mismatched furniture that looks so good together it seems like she did it on purpose and a throw rug over carpet that should have been replaced years ago.
“If you want, I can take you to my room,” I say. “You’ll be more comfortable in there.”
Violet’s smile enters the realm of mischievous. “Are you trying to get me in your bed?”
I chuckle. Not intentionally. “Is it working?”
She swings her leg to the ground and grabs on to my wrist as she stands. Violet slowly walks to my room, and even with the limp, she has a sexy strut that holds my attention. Her hips sway from side to side and my blood begins to warm. Until she says the word, touching her is off limits, but not touching doesn’t mean not fantasizing.
Without having to look, she flips on the light to my room and then slips onto my bed like it’s hers. Might as well be. She’s the only girl who has lain in it, the only girl I’ve kissed on it, the only girl I’ve held in it as I slept.
Even with our months apart, she continued to own me and I could never bring anyone else to a place that forever belonged to us.
She fluffs a pillow, takes the brace off her knee, drops it to the floor like it’s poison, then stretches her hand to my bedside table and uses the remote to turn on the TV that sits on top of my dresser. My room isn’t much. A full bed with a dark blue comforter and matching sheets. Football trophies and a couple of books on shelves. Colts and Harley posters on the light green wall.
I lean my back against the doorway and soak it all in. This. I miss this. I miss the easiness of Violet. The peacefulness of having her in my life. Yeah, she’s a ball of fire, but when we were together, I could hold that fire and not get burned.
“I’ve missed you,” I say.
Violet glances over at me and the softness in her expression nearly brings me to my knees. “Me, too.”
My cell buzzes and I pull it out of my pocket.
Oz: Club’s figuring out you and Violet split. Razor and I saw you go. They’re thirty seconds to going crazy. Give me something to calm them down.
Me: Violet’s with me. We’re safe.
Oz: Where are you?
Me: Home. But we need silence. We need time alone.
Oz: Razor and I will cover for the two of you. If they insist Violet needs additional tails, we’ll volunteer.
Me: I hear it’s going to be a cold night.
Oz: It’ll do Razor some good. He’s gotten soft falling in love.
I chuckle and Oz sends another message: No one will come near. You’ve got my word.
Me: Thanks
Oz: Anytime
“Is the cavalry on the way to swoop in and save me from the dust bunnies under your bed?” Violet asks as she flips through the stations of a TV that’s heavier and older than me.
“I told Oz we needed time.” I push off the wall, turn off the light and join her on the bed. I allow her space if she should need it, but she shifts in my direction. Her shoulder brushes against mine, and I won’t lie, that simple contact causes my restless soul to settle. “He and Razor have our backs.”
“They do,” she agrees, and it’s the first sign of her trusting anyone beyond me in the Terror. “I also miss them.”
“There’s nothing they wouldn’t do for you.” Nothing I wouldn’t do for her either.
“Want to talk about it?” she asks, switching subjects. I’m not sure if she’s talking about football or how I unleashed on Cyrus. Possibly both.