She glances at me. “What’s with the long face?”
“Nance, can I?—”
“No cleaning,” she cuts in firmly. “You need to rest and recover. Mostly rest.”
I groan in frustration. “But there’s nothing todo.”
That’s the biggest source of my problems.
Cleaning became a distraction I leaned into to avoid having to think about Jeremiah, the pain he had caused me, and losing my mom.
I didn’t have to think when I cleaned. I could focus on getting the next bit of floor or table or whatever sparkly, then move on to the next cleaning task to occupy my mind.
Without that distraction, all I have is time to think, and all I seem to want to think about is how close I came to dying alone in the desert if Makhi, Nash, and Vonn hadn’t found me. Would the vulture have waited until I was dead before it ate me? And the snake. How painful would it have been to die of venom?
I scramble to my feet and rush out of the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” Nance shouts after me.
“Ride with Makhi.”
I dart into the living room that Nance turned into my bedroom, riffling through the chest of drawers that Vonn carried down the stairs for me. No sooner have I stuffed a hoodie over my head and stepped into white sneakers than I’m hurrying out through the entryway, hoping to catch Makhi before he leaves.
Nance sticks her head out of the kitchen, frowning. “Don’t you think?—”
“I’ll see you later, Nance,” I call out, and fly past her before she can talk me out of doing something I already know isn’t a good idea.
The loud purr of an engine propels me to run faster.
I fly through the garage, and skid to a stop.
Nash is in a black leather jacket and sitting astride his bike, holding a helmet with another on his head.
My sneakers didn’t make a sound, and with the sound of his bike’s engine filling the room, he couldn’t have known I was there. Yet he holds the helmet to the side as if he knew the moment I entered the garage.
“Here.” His voice emerges slightly muffled, but I hear it clearly enough.
“How did you?—”
“Just did.”
I don’t let myself think too long and too deeply about why this is not a good idea. I take the helmet he offers me, force it onto my head, and take his right hand for balance as I climb up onto the bike behind him.
There’s a natural tilt to the bike seat I hadn’t noticed until he shifts forward a bit, and when I clamber on behind him, I’m pressed up tight against his back.
I stop breathing when he grips both my hands and pulls them around his middle. Over the thick leather of his coat, I feel the muscle beneath.
He turns his head to the left, and I can barely see his eyes through the tinted screen of his helmet. “Wrap your arms around my waist. Hold on tight.”
I didn’t think about this ride for as long as I should have.
By the time I’m telling him that I changed my mind, it’s too late. The bike is moving forward. I can wrap my arms around him and hold on, or risk flying off his bike when he accelerates.
I hold on.
He smells shower-fresh and of leather, a combination I hadn’t known I would like.
I turn my face to the side to see better as he takes it slow and steady through the garage and down the graveled driveway toward the iron gates that wrap around the Gabriel Mansion. He must have a key fob that he presses for the front gate to slide open as we approach.
