Nettie swallowed.
Courage—no, foolishness—burned hot in her chest now, lighting her up from the inside out. By the third stoplight, she was past thinking, past reason. She leaned out further still, hair whipping her face, her voice loud and daring as it leaped into the dangerous air between them. She was really grateful that her favorite hair stick, a long ‘U’ shaped device that looked like an instrument of torture, was tucked safely in her purse right now.
“Want something a little more fun and exciting than that motorcycle between your legs?”
“You hussy!” Gina shrieked, slapping her thigh in scandalized delight.
The rider didn’t move a muscle. But oh, he heard her. She could feel the fury radiating from him even before his gloved hand jabbed downward again, sharper this time, unmistakable.
Sit down.
Buckle up.
Nettie laughed, reckless bravado bubbling out of her, covering the nervous quake inside her belly. “Come over here and make me, big fella...”
And then?—
The man’s hand flew to his helmet, yanking the visor up.
Nettie’s world shattered.
It wasn’t a stranger.
It was Tate.
Gina’s brother.
“Oh gosh…” she breathed as her soul shriveled like a paper set on fire. If she were a spider, her very being had just been doused with the world’s most toxic of chemicals before being set ablaze. A part of her died, right here – right now – and she saw it oozing up like some comical ghost between them.
Time of death?
Six-forty-nine p.m….
“SIT YOUR BUTT DOWN IN THE CAR NOW, BERNADETTE!” Tate’s roar was thunder, ripping across the space between them. No one ever called her Bernedette –ever. It was like a crack of venom being whipped at her. Her name in his voice was like a strike to the chest… lethal and potent.
“Tate?” she whispered, horror crashing over her.
Her gaze scrambled over him—dark, furious eyes that always seemed to see too much. That long, proud nose, broken once, twice—maybe more—in fistfights and hockey games. That angry, hard mouth, set in a line carved from rage and disdain.
Tate Cassidy. Gina’s older brother.
The man who had mocked her, dismissed her, ignored her existence for most of her life.
“OMIGOSH, THAT’S TATE?” Gina yelped from the driver’s seat, her disgust and horror were so emphatic it was almost comical. “Not hot! Not hot! Soooo not hot!Ewww—I need to soap my eyeballs right now… AND WHEN DID YOU GET A MOTORCYCLE?” she demanded, her voice climbing shrill as a fire alarm. “Mom’s gonna flip her lid if she catches you on a bike…”
“Sit down now,” Tate growled, leaning so close that Nettie could see the flames of anger burning in the depths of his eyes. Her bravado cracked. She shrank back into her seat like a scolded child, pulse racing, skin mottled red with shame.
The light flicked green.
None of them moved.
Tate’s voice was iron. “Now, buckle up—and stay in your seat. You don’t need to pick up men like some tramp.”
The word slashed through her.
Tramp.
Nettie gasped, as did Gina, but Tate’s glare swung to his sister, sharp enough to cut steel. “And you! If you valued her as a friend, you wouldn’t encourage her to do these stupid, infantile things.”
