Our gazes meet. Something passes between us, which is weird. I barely know Bobby. He squeezes my knee. “I commented on it.”
“And?”
He shrugs. “His decision, Ever.”
“If you had a baby on the way, would you stop riding your motorcycle?”
“I haven’t thought that far.”
“But you do want children someday, right?” My shoulders tense up while I wait for his answer. Why did I ask such a personal question? Kids never came up when Carlos and I dated.
“Yeah. You?”
“Yes,” I answer. “And have them closer in age. Like two years rather than the seven years that separate me and Ty. You?”
His next words are casual, but his grip on the steering wheel says differently. “Nah, I’m fine with the age difference. I was a man when my sister became a teenager. A man could protect his little sis. A boy? Not so much.”
When Bobby’s sister turned thirteen, he would’ve been twenty, a man who was overprotective of his sis, from how he speaks about her.
Then what did that say about Ty? He was a man at twenty-two and twenty-three, respectively, when I overdosed and went for a joyride with a guy his age.
“What other questions do you have?”
“That’s it.”
He moves his hand from my knee to my thigh. His palm is warm and heavy. Awareness grabs my insides. My body heats. He caresses my skin over my dress, his fingers dancing closer to my inner thigh.
I do this clear-throat-small-cough thing and cross my legs. His chuckle fills the cabin. Bobby tips his head at the small brown bag on the seat between us.
“Eat.”
I’m not hungry, but I eat because he commands it. I’m surprised my brain isn’t revolting, and I’m not telling Bobby to take his commands and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.
I’m finding out he’s full of surprises, and discovering new things about me when I’m with him. I also eat because it was thoughtful of him to call ahead and place an order for my favorite iced drink and pastries—an éclair and a cookie with pink frosting.
“All good?” He shoots me a smile that blinds me.
“Yes, thank you. Want some?” I hold up the éclair.
“Nah, babe. All yours.”
“You don’t like sweets?”
“Oh, I like sweets. Your pussy juices will be sweet on my tongue when I eat you out later.” He jerks his head at my half-eaten éclair and the pink cookie poking from the brown bag. “Eat up, buttercup.”
My face flames. I finish my éclair and cookie in silence. Bobby’s arm slides under my hair, and he pulls me close with his hand on my shoulder. I scoot closer to his heat. With one hand on the steering wheel, he massages my shoulder, then my nape, and hums a tune.
I don’t recognize it. “It’s beautiful.”
“Miss You Like Crazy. Natalie Cole. My mom’s favorite song. She played it when she longed for the man she couldn’t be with.”
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
“He’s”—I clear my throat—“he’s gone?”
“Something like that.”
