“Omigod,” I managed to choke out, before covering my mouth with my hands, tears already threatening their escape. The back of his trailer lit by candles and full to the brim of red roses. Not a dirt bike in sight. I looked down into his eyes and saw him nervously smiling up at me. “Yes!” I blurted out before he even had a chance to officially ask.
“Really?” He laughed. “Not even going to let me get a word in?” I bit my tongue and gave him quick head nod to continue as I placed my shaking hands in his. “Marry me, Nora Bennett. Marry me and make me the happiest, luckiest, most grateful man on the planet. Will you?”
“Absolutely,” I said, dropping down to my knees to kiss him. I wrapped my arms around his neck and held on to him like this was all a dream that was going to slip away from me. When I felt him hold onto me I knew it was real.
“I love you, Shutterbug,” he whispered in my ear before breaking our hold on one another.
“I love you too,” I replied, watching him slip the most beautiful ring I’d ever seen on my finger. I admired it as he placed his arms back around me and pulled me against him. “I really thought you were going to show me a new bike,” I confessed, overjoyed in a moment that I was certainly not expecting. We’d talked a lot about our future, but I didn’t think we were close to this yet.
“You’re more important than any bike. Always have been, always will be.”
After all these years of watching him ride, I finally got it. The exhilaration. The adrenaline. The rush of victory. I understood exactly what it felt like to come in first. I was taking home the trophy and I couldn’t have been happier.
Want more of the Wild Riders?
Then don’t miss Brett & Georgia’s story WHIPPED coming soon from Elizabeth Lee!
He’s a guy who’s never been in love. She’s a girl that’s not sure she can love again.
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And now, a sneak peek at INTERLUDE coming soon from Anna Cruise
There’s this rhythmic sound coming from the front of the house. I think it’s Joey, banging some girl in his room, and I flip over and smash the pillow over my head. It stinks of bad breath and sweat, but I don’t wanna hear the tempo pick up, or the bedframe squeak, or the moans and groans that’ll follow.
But then I remember. Joey isn’t here. ‘Cuz I kicked his sorry ass out for dealing. Not because I just found out and went all narco on him. I’ve known that’s his gig, and I told him I didn’t give a shit what he does at work or outside the house, but the minute he brought his junkie friends through the front door to swap his shit, he was out.
I sit up a little and listen. The sound isn’t rhythmic, and it isn’t coming from Joey’s old room. It’s pounding. At the front door.
I fall back on the mattress and squeeze my eyes shut. Probably Joey.
It’s been three days and I haven’t heard a word from him. No text, no Snap, no voicemail. He cleared out his shit in two hours—he didn’t have much—and last I heard from him was a loud, bitter “Fuck you.” Shitty way to end a living arrangement, but it was his fault it went down like that. I always knew how he got the cash to pay for his room, and I told him I didn’t care. As long as it didn’t involve me, he could do whatever the hell he needed to do to get me his $400 a month. Except bring drugs in my house.
The pounding gets louder. I listen. It isn’t angry or forceful, the way Joey would knock if he’s high on shit and wants to rail on me. It’s softer, insistent, the way a dog wanting to go for a walk might tug on a leash.
I grab my phone off the nightstand. One o’clock in the morning. Who the hell is knocking on my door at one a.m.?