“I’ll go slow.”
Resigned, I look at the motorcycle again before walking toward it. The thing is bigger up close, but before my second thoughts can fester, he opens the trunk and takes out a helmet. It’s identical to the one he wears, except this has a red stripe down the middle, whereas his is a solid black.
“Oh my God.” Realization dawns. “Is this Lexi’s helmet?” I swat it away, but it doesn’t budge. “Get that thing out of my face. I’m not sharing a helmet with Lexi.” I slam my hand on it, and it stings. “Dammit,” I mutter, shaking my hand as if that will take the pain away.
“It’s not Lexi’s,” he says in a reassuring tone. “She’s never been on my bike.”
“Then whose is it?” I probe. “Some other secret side chick? If you think I’m going to join your sick rotation of girls, you’ve got another think coming.”
“There’s no rotation of girls. I got it for you.”
I’m stunned speechless by that declaration. I’m so numb by his words that I can’t think enough to get out of his way. He moves fast and puts the helmet on my head.
“Why in thehellwould you get me a helmet?” I finally ask.
“So you can ride with me,” he replies, as if the answer should be obvious. “What the fuck else is a helmet for?”
It’s a perfect fit, and I wonder why he got a helmet for me, or if he had it made specifically for me. He doesn’t seem like the type who has friends, other than that guy he had dinner with at Paulene’s.
Once the helmet is securely on my head, our eyes lock before he puts down the visor. He gestures for me to get on, but after I struggle to do so, he lifts me and places me on the bike. It feels strange to be here, to be on something so personal to him, but I’m too tired to think it through and too tired to walk home.
He sits in front of me and yells, “Wrap your arms tightly around me.”
After taking a deep breath, I do as he instructed. He takes my arms and pulls them tighter around him, then puts his own helmet on and starts the motorcycle.
He didn’t lie to me. He drives slowly down the dark, abandoned streets. I’ll never admit it to him, but the ride is much more peaceful than I thought it would be. The wind against my skin feels good, and there’s a certain safety to being on this bike with him.
Instead of pulling into my parents’ driveway, he goes to the end of the street and parks in the library’s parking lot. Once we come to a stop, he steps down from the bike, helps me off, and removes my helmet. He doesn’t say a word to me, but I feel this charge between us, so I make sure to avoid eye contact.
I clear my throat and start to walk out of the parking lot. “Thanks,” I shout dismissively, but he catches up and walks beside me. I come to an abrupt halt. He copies my movements.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I ask.
He gestures at my apartment a few feet away.
“No.” I shake my head. “Absolutely not. My dad will shoot you right where you stand.”
He snickers as if the idea is absurd. “I’ll take my chances.” He raises both hands in fake surrender. “I’m just seeing you home.”
“I’m not your responsibility.”
“It looks like you are, Thorny.”
My head rolls back at the nickname. I open my mouth to argue, but I can’t think of a single thing to say, so I swat his arm. A big mistake, because he wraps his massive hand around my wrist.
I’m thankful that it’s too dark for me to look into his eyes. I attempt to tug my hand from his grasp, but he doesn’t release me. He tightens his hold around my wrist and pulls me closer to him.
“Let me go,” I order, and he does. “Jerk,” I whisper as I continue to walk.
We don’t say a word. Maybe he’s just making sure I get to the house, but he doesn’t head back in the direction of the library when we get there. He follows me up the driveway and the stairs to my apartment. There’s a rose waiting there for me, and another food delivery.
After picking up both things, I unlock my door. He walks inside, and I close and lock the door behind him. He looks around and furrows his brows.
“I’ve been working at least ten hours a day for the past four days. I haven’t had time to clean.” I gesture around the place. Thankfully, I washed the dirty dishes in my sink this morning, but my living room is a mess. I fell asleep on the couch last night, and all my pillows are on the floor, along with the scrubs I wore the day before. I have several pairs of shoes scattered about the place, and my tiny kitchen table is littered with junk mail and one dead plant. The only decent thing in my apartment is the vase full of roses. I add the latest one to it. “Though I would have cleaned if I had invited anyone over.”
He ignores my dig.
“Why do you work so much?” he asks.
