I follow her out to the parking lot, and we climb onto the Harley again. She settles behind me, her arms tight around my middle, her chin bumping the back of my shoulder pad as I gun it up the on-ramp. It’s colder now—overcast, like the Carolinas remembered what month it is and decided to catch up.
I keep my speed steady. She’s always hated when I go too fast, says she likes the way the world smears at the edges, but not when it gets blurry enough we start skipping details.
So I hold it at seventy, the throaty rumble of the big twin drowning out both our thoughts.
Hours pass like that.
Flat highway. Pines. Billboards advertising fireworks and pecan logs. A whole lot of nothing.
The sky darkens as we push north. What started as overcast turns mean—thick gray clouds rolling in, swollen with everything they’ve been holding back. The temperature drops again, and I feel Emma press closer, trying to chase my warmth.
We’re maybe an hour outside Charlotte when the first drops hit.
At first, just a few—fat, cold splats on my visor.
Then more.
Then a steady patter that becomes a full downpour in under thirty seconds.
Fuck.
Emma’s grip tightens around my waist as the rain starts hammering us. Visibility drops to fifty feet, maybe. The road turns slick. Every passing car kicks a wave of spray at us that feels like getting slapped with a bucket.
I ease off the throttle. Fifty. Forty-five.
The bike can handle this. I’ve ridden in worse.
But Emma’s already shaking. We’ll both be soaked through in minutes.
Lightning cracks across the sky. Thunder follows, so loud I feel it more than hear it.
Emma’s whole body tenses.
That decides it.
I work my way toward the right lane, scanning for an exit. Any exit. We need off this highway before shit gets worse.
A green sign punches through the rain:Charlotte - 15 miles.
Close enough.
I take the next ramp. Emma’s got her face pressed to my back now, trying to hide from the storm.
By the time I spot a motel—a generic roadside place with a flickering vacancy sign—the rain is coming down in sheets. I pull under the covered drop-off, kill the engine, and sit there a second while the storm hammers the awning overhead.
We’re drenched. Water’s pouring off my cut. Emma’s shaking even though she’s wearing my jacket.
She climbs off the bike slowly, pulling off her helmet. Her dark hair is plastered to her head, mascara smudged under her eyes. She looks at the motel, then at me, then at the wall of water just past the awning.
“So,” she says, deadpan. “I’m guessing we’re not making it to New York tonight.”
Fuck.
A motel.
With Emma.
Alone.
