“Yeah, actually you do.”
“Get in,” he growls.
I nod, because it’s easier than arguing.
The cab smells like his hands, like motor oil and leather.A faded Santa air freshener hangs from the mirror, irony maybe, or just evidence of someone else’s prank.He doesn’t turn on the radio.The silence sits thick until I hear my own teeth chatter.
“You okay?”he asks again.
“I don’t know,” I admit.“We’ve been robbed before.Masked men come in acting like they have a weapon in their hoodie.Jimmy, our boss, tells us to give them the money, and we do.Usually that’s the end of it.I’ve never had a gun in my face like that.”
“You did good,” he says.“Kept your head.Most people freeze or scream.”
“You broke his arm.”
He shrugs.“He pointed a weapon at you.”
I stare out the window at Evervale’s holiday lights blinking cheerful lies.“You always that calm?”
“No,” he says after a beat.“Just trained.”
When he glances over, something hot slides under my skin.I can still sense his hand at my back, the rough pad of his thumb when he steadied me.He shouldn’t look that controlled after what happened.I shouldn’t want to lean closer.
He pulls up outside my building, kills the engine, but doesn’t unlock the doors.
“I didn’t tell you where I live,” I remark.
“Sugar,” he explains.
I realize I’ve not been present.
“Your hands are still shaking,” he says.
Looking down, I see he’s right.“I’ll live.”
The biker studies me like he’s deciding if he believes it.Then he raises his eyebrows.“Where’s your man?”
“At work in the city,” I answer honestly.“Was.Don’t know if he’s coming over.I didn’t answer his call.”
“On Christmas Eve?”
I shrug.
“He as young as you?”
“Twenty-two?No, he’s twenty-eight,” I say, wondering why I tell him anything.
“You’re not staying here.”
“Excuse me?”
He blows out a breath.Looks away as he says, “They saw your face.Maybe they follow.Maybe they talk.I don’t like chances.”
“And where exactly am I supposed to go?”
He turns the key again.“Clubhouse.Safer.”
“I don’t even know you.”
