“Is it too tight?” I ask, trying to keep focused on the matter at hand.
She shakes her head. “It’s fine.”
I give it a gentle tug, checking the fit. “Has to be, ‘cause it’s the only one we’ve got that even remotely fits you.”
When I step back, she exhales like she didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath. I pretend not to notice.
“This isn’t a morning pleasure ride,” I say, meeting her eyes. “We’re going straight there with no messing about. You tell me if anything feels wrong.”
“I trust you,” she says.
Her softly spoken words hit me right in the feels. I nod once, swallowing thickly because I don’t want my emotions to become obvious. I don’t know why I’m having such a strong reaction to Emily all of a sudden.
I swing one leg onto the bike and wait, watching her as she hesitates for a half second before climbing on behind me. Her hands hover, unsure where to go. I reach back and tap my waist.
“Here,” I say. “Or the sides. Whatever feels solid.”
She settles against me carefully, her grip tentative at first, then firmer when she finds her balance. Her body fits close enough, that I can feel the heat radiating off her body through the leather vest.
“You ready?” I ask.
She leans forward just enough for me to hear her over the engine. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
When I start the bike, the engine roars to life beneath us. I feel her stiffen for a second, then relax again. She clearly was not expecting all the vibrations. It’s a shock on a bike the size of my Harley.
I roll us slowly forward, ease out of the lot and onto the road. My focus is locked on keeping the ride smooth. This isn’t just a ride. It is Emily’s first ride, and she trusted me to make it safeand special for her. I don’t take that lightly. I keep the throttle light and my movements predictable. The tires snick against the pavement, ‘cause they have good tread.
The first time we go around a curve, I feel her tense immediately, her body going rigid behind me. It feels like she’s afraid of falling. I don’t rush her. Instead, I let the moment stretch, giving her time to adjust to the weight and motion and sound. After a few seconds, her grip shifts around my waist. She’s finding her balance.
When we get onto the interstate, I accelerate smoothly, loving the kind of move that lets you feel the raw power of the motorcycle. As my tires eat up the road, I feel the change in her almost immediately. She leans close, trusting the movement instead of resisting it. This woman is operating on pure instinct, like she’s meant to be on the back of my bike.
Riding with me isn’t just about transportation. In the club, a first ride means different things to different people. For some, it’s an opportunity to bond, a test to see if they’re compatible, and for others it’s a test of sorts about how they react to being so close and if they trust you to keep them safe. From my perspective, you don’t put someone on the back of your bike unless you’re willing to be responsible for them in every way that matters.
Having Emily on the back of my bike sharpens my focus. My entire world narrows down to the road and the solid feel of her body pressed against my back. Her reactions register through contact instead of sound. The way her hands shift from cautious to sure. The way her breathing evens out against my back. The way she presses closer instead of pulling away when the speed increases. I feel every adjustment she makes, every small choice to trust me a little more.
By the time we pull into the courthouse, I feel as though I know her on a whole new level. Finding a parking space under a shade tree, I cut the engine and dismount. As I’m removing my helmet, Emily dismounts carefully. I stay close, hovering without touching in case she needs my help. I want to be there just in case she stumbles. Thankfully, she doesn’t.
The receptionist in the prosecuting attorney’s office barely looks up when we give our names and sign in. I know that we don’t have an appointment and can’t expect an attorney to drop everything to meet with us. However, I was told he reserves eight to nine in the morning for walk-ins and case updates. I feel like we’re being left waiting longer than we should, and when we’re finally ushered into the PA’s office the man behind the desk looks tired already, and his day has barely started.
I introduce us. “My name is Onyx Jackson. This is my old lady, Emily Banks. We’re here about the Charles Brennan case.”
“Yes, of course,” he says, reaching for a file. “Please have a seat.”
He doesn’t ask how she’s doing. He opens the file, skims it as we drop down into the two chairs in front of his desk. His name plate says Richard Braun. He comes across as a worker bee, overworked, undercompensated for all that he does and most important of all, detached from the cases he’s been tasked with prosecuting. That worries me.
While he’s skimming the file, I tell him, “We heard from the grapevine that you’re thinking of taking him off house arrest.”
Glancing up, he clarifies, “I’m not thinking of doing anything of the sort. However, his defense attorney has filed a motion requesting just that. They’re attempting to show a materialchange in circumstances since the first hearing, proving that he poses less risk to the community than initially thought.”
Emily stammers, “But he broke into my house, destroyed all my electronic equipment, and terrified me.”
“I’m aware,” he murmurs, glancing back down at the file. Before I can jerk a knot in his stupid ass, he flips a few pages and explains, “Here it is. They’ve presented an affidavit to the judge that includes a full psychological workup stating that he poses very little danger to the community and has been participating in therapy twice a week to deal with the stress of being unjustly accused of involvement in his girlfriend’s disappearance.”
“I think you already know that’s fuckin’ bullshit, right? You can pay a doctor to say anything you want.”
“That’s debatable, but the judge has seventy-two hours to review the request,” he states calmly.
I lean forward and ask, “And exactly what do you plan to do about this?”
