“It looks like someone hit you,” he whispers softly, his eyes searching mine. “What happened?”
I groan. “It isn’t a big deal—and she didn’t punch me or anything. She just slapped me.”
Jordan frowns. “Your mother?”
“Yes.”
“Does she do that often?” Jordan watches me so close I can tell that he’s looking for the lie.
“No,” I answer him firmly. “This is the first time ever.”
Jordan nods slowly. “Please call me if—”
I interrupt him. “It won’t happen again.” I sigh, grabbing the helmet. I try to pull it gently on by myself. Unfortunately, I can’t seem to align it correctly and only end up hurting myself worse.
Jordan chuckles softly, but with my eyes blocked by the chin guard of the helmet, I can’t even see him. His warm hands replace mine and he straightens, then gently pulls the helmet down into position.
“I take it you’ve never been on a motorcycle before?”
“No.”
“You seem … nervous.” He’s putting it lightly and we both know it.
“It has all the power of a car without any of the protection.” I gesture down to the metal monster next to us and sigh. “What did you expect me to do, pet it?”
“You’re pretty cute when you’re being difficult,” Jordan says as he takes my keys out of my hands and sticks them in his pocket. His grin is so self-satisfied and his words such a weird combination of compliment and jab that it takes me a minute to come up with a response.
“You haven’t even seen me be difficult yet.” I decide I should probably just leave it at that.
“I’m pretty certain I have, but whatever it looks like, it wouldn’t change my opinion.” He speaks these words like they shouldn’t surprise me, but they do, and as my cheeks flush red, I’m abruptly grateful for the helmet.
Once we’re both seated on his black death trap, he turns the key and the bike roars to life. The engine revs so loud my ears ring. Jordan lets it idle, and the sound mellows to the point where I can mostly hear again. He reaches back and grabs my hands, bringing them tight around his waist. My nose fills with the strong, clean scent that is so Jordan. For whatever reason, the first reaction my body has is to melt against him.
“Riley, don’t let go. No matter what,” he says just loud enough for me to hear over the engine and my heart pounds in response as he lifts the kickstand and eases the motorcycle forward. Wrapping my arms tighter, I feel a little better knowing my instincts at the moment are from pure panic and not my confusing attraction to him. I force myself not to whimper as I close my eyes and lean my helmet against his back. Any playfulness from just minutes before is gone in the face of genuine fear. Motorcycles have always terrified me even from a distance. Being on one intensifies my distress more than I expect.
I cringe as he glides the bike smoothly out into the street, but when we reach the first corner and have to turn, the way it leans makes me squeeze myself even tighter against him. I feel him pat my hands as they grip the front of his shirt to reassure me. I try to relax because the tension is causing the muscles in my shoulders to ache.
Closing my eyes, I let the tension drain down from my neck, along my back and out through my legs. Once I release my muscles a bit, I’m shocked to feel the worries and fears that have tied me in knots for weeks start to melt away, bit by twitchy bit.
Wrapping one hand up and across Jordan’s chest, I settle into the way our bodies shift together with the motorcycle’s movements. We lean and curve as one, moving with the power and force of the rumbling engine below us.
It’s still horrifying to think about how fragile and exposed we are, but in a way there is a certain desperate beauty to it. Right now, we live and die together. We’re vulnerable together.
My hand curls into a fist and I look up as we start passing through shadow after shadow. We’re getting close now, and the tall buildings of downtown Houston hide us from the sunlight. Between the shadows and the wind whipping past us, the temperature dips so fast that my skin prickles with an immediate chill. I snuggle closer to Jordan’s warm back, for the first time not out of fear. I swear that being from Texas turns you cold-blooded sometimes. I don’t handle temperature changes as well as a normal mammal should.
Jordan drives into a parking spot near the base of the tall blue building we’re looking for, and I recognize another reason he prefers a motorcycle. Parking spots are definitely easier to come by in the city.
As he turns the key and cuts the engine, I’m blown away by the abrupt onslaught of city noises I couldn’t hear before: cars honking, music from a café up the street, people talking. The deep rumble of the motorcycle had eclipsed all of that and more.