I hold my breath as the bike roars past.
As I stand up, I hear it slow, hear its tires screech as it turns somewhere in the dark behind me.
I throw myself to the ground again as it slows down, headlamp illuminating the grass in front of me. My heart’s beating fast, and my toes sink into the mud.
The bike draws up next to me and idles.
“I know you’re here,” a deep voice calls, muffled by the helmet. “Stop hiding from me.”
I raise my face, the rain sluicing off the mud on my cheek, and squint in the light.
The figure in black lifts his helmet.
“McCarthy?” I choke out. Scrambling upright, I wince and stumble when I step on a particularly sharp rock.
McCarthy’s off the bike in one fluid motion.
“Cupcake.”
“Oh, hell no. I am not dealing with you right now.” Gritting my teeth against the pain in my feet, I resume my march toward the city.
McCarthy curses when he realizes I’m not stopping. His boots are heavy on the pavement.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” The gloves are rough on my bruised arms.
“Walking.”
“To fucking where?”
I whirl around.
“You have some nerve.” I sound hoarse and shrieky. “Showing up here, stalking me on a motorcycle, of all things! You’re not supposed to be riding that thing. You lost your license. You will go to jail if you get caught.”
“This bike goes so fast the police won’t be able to catch me.” He shrugs a massive shoulder that’s even bigger in the padded motorcycle jacket.
“Well, you can go home now. I’m fine.”
“You’re barefoot in the middle of nowhere. You’re not fine. Get on.”
“No.”
“You can wear my helmet.”
“I can walk.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“It was one of your fiancés, wasn’t it?”
“No.”
“Yes. You’re lying. I see it on your face.”
I will the tears not to start.
Sure, this is a low point, but I don’t want it to go completely in the ditch by admitting to McCarthy that he was right and I was wrong.
