Because it did.
My past still did.
It all did.
I was just a little more open-minded about it than before.
“We haven’t even gotten to the topic at hand.”
Michael pretended to play dumb, as if he didn’t know what I was referring to.
“Me working for you guys, remember?”
“Oh, right!” Michael said in an exaggerated fashion. “Silly me. It was like I almost enjoyed chatting with you and getting to know you so much, I couldn’t help but forget it!”
“Right,” I said.
“Well, we could continue the night.”
I didn’t like my question being avoided. But maybe I was expecting too much right now.
If he didn’t answer if I said yes, though…
“Where at?”
I spoke the question with a little bit of suspicion. As fun as this was, I was far, far away from hugging Michael, let alone anything more. This was typically the spot where men took things just a little too far, and while such a move would not necessarily have spelled the end of me ever talking to him, it was the kind of thing that could send it into a downward spiral.
And it would also put to rest any idea of me ever working for him or anyone else.
“Well,” Michael said, pausing for a beat. “It’s, what, a Monday?”
I nodded.
“There’s a place called Brewskis on the edge of town that is open until two in the morning daily, I believe. It’s kind of a dive bar, but they have things like pool there. Wanna keep the night going there?”
I had to be at the hospital at seven a.m. the next day. I hadn’t slept as much as I’d wanted to the past weekend. I had multiple reasons for saying no.
But all it took was one reason to say yes, and that reason was curiosity.
“Sure,” I said.
“Great, then hop on,” Michael said, walking to his motorcycle.
I planted my feet in the ground, as impossible to uproot as a fifty-foot tree with bare human hands, and folded my arms. It only took Michael a couple of steps before he realized he might have been a bit too bold.
“Remember how last week I said I wasn’t riding with you?” I said.
I still wasn’t willing to ride on Michael’s motorcycle. He had melted the exterior that refused to engage at all with the Black Reapers, but he hadn’t even come close to winning over the part of me that was willing to go any further than that. I’d seen too many girls hop on the back of a motorcycle and then fall on their own backs in their beds.
And even ignoring that, there was no disassociating the bike from the gang, the vehicle from the enemy, the means from the meanness.
“Not going to happen,” I said.
“You sure?” he said.
But he seemed to acquiesce with stunning ease.
“Okay.”
