Luckily, I had a backup plan.
“Faster!” Lisa urges, wrapping her legs tighter around me as her claws sink into the tops of my pecs.
At least, I think that’s what she said. It’s tough to hear with the helmet muffing my ears and the scream of my motorcycle’s engine covering her voice.
I rev the throttle in response, and Lisa’s grip tightens around my chest.
“We’re almost there.” I take a turn a bit faster than normal, loving the way she laughs like this is a carnival ride.
When she told me she’d never been on a motorcycle before, I had to remedy that. Blame it on The Test, blame it on my desire to feel her body pressed against mine. Either way, it got us here on the back of my Ducati.
I pull the bike into the covered parking area in front of my workshop. Being on the wrong side of the tracks— or bridge, as it were—has an upside. This industrial part of Portland isn’t pretty, but it’s a prime spot for manufacturing the steel-walled bottles that made me stupid rich.
It also has a shower, which is why we’re here now. If we can’t make it to either of our homes, this will have to do.
I park the bike and tug off my helmet, pausing to tuck it in the locked gearbox on the back. Then I then turn to grab Lisa by the hips.
“So this is where the magic happens,” she says.
“Yep. Headquarters for CoolTanks double steel-walled reusable water bottles.”
“It’s nice,” she says, though nice is hardly the word to describe this rundown warehouse on the fringe of Portland’s inner-eastside. It’s butt-ugly, but it gets the job done.
I set Lisa on firm ground, then fumble the straps on her helmet. Tucking it under my arm, I grab her hand and start tugging her toward the shop. “Right this way.”
I sound like a fucking tour guide, or maybe like a sixteen-year-old boy who’s hoping to get laid for the first time. But since Lisa devised The Test to get no-strings sex and a glimpse of life’s seedier side, maybe that’s not the worst thing.
I unlock the rolling steel door and shove it back. The smell of metal shavings and heated plastic rushes toward us, a scent as familiar and comforting as my morning bacon.
But not to Lisa, who hesitates in the doorway and lets go of my hand. She takes a few steps forward, and I brace myself for a snide comment about the dust and dirt and disarray.
“Wow.”
I’m instantly on alert for judgment. “It ain’t the Ritz Carlton,” I mutter, determined to beat her to the punch.
She tosses an eye roll over her shoulder, then ignores me and moves toward the far corner of the room. It’s then that I realize what’s captured her attention. A funny lump clogs up my throat.
“It’s amazing.” Lisa reaches up to brush a hand over the sculpture. “Did you make this?”
“Yeah.” I nod, equal parts embarrassed and defensive. “I—uh—usually keep it covered. Sheet must have fallen off.”
“Wow,” she says again, circling the sculpture like an art critic. “I love mixed metal, and this piece is especially fantastic.”
“Thanks.” My chest swells, but I keep my pride in check as I watch her hand trace the lines of the sculpture. It’s a little abstract, but still obvious it’s a wolf. At least to me, since no one else has seen it.
“Wolves are such majestic creatures,” Lisa murmurs, answering the question I’m too chickenshit to ask. “And you’ve captured it so exquisitely. All the sharp angles and powerful curves. It’s really beautiful.”
“Thank you.” My throat is tight, and I’m not sure why it feels so strange to have Lisa here marveling over my work.
“What made you choose a wolf?”
I take my time answering, choosing my words carefully. “School mascot.”
“High school or college?”
The words spark something unpleasant in the core of my chest. “High school. Not all of us had the money or the smarts for college.”
Lisa ignores my sharp tone, but studies me. She’s watching my face like she knows there’s more to the wolf story than I’m saying. Like she knows the reason I’m being kind of an asshole.
