His eyes narrow on me, his earlier mirth forgotten. “Anyone ever told you you’re infuriating?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, the warm fuzzies from standing up to him a little fading away. I grew up being told what a frustrating disappointment I am, so that’s nothing new. For some reason, it hurts a lot more than I expected to hear it from him. Needing to switch the topic before Azrael realizes how much his offhand comment got to me, I ask, “How long have you been riding?”
Huffing a laugh, he turns to inspect my bike. “Longer than you’ve been alive, little bird. Why?”
My eyes widen at that. He doesn’t look that much older than me, maybe in his early thirties. Shifters age slower than humans, but I still thought he was around my age. I guess he’s quite a bit older than I had assumed.
“I’m just trying to find out how likely it is that you’ll maim or kill both of us on your fancy Italian crotch rocket.” While it’d be hard for a bike crash to kill me, it’s not impossible. I think it’s a reasonable fear to worry about riding behind a dude I barely know.
Looking over his shoulder at me, Azrael rolls his eyes. “You’ll be fine. Trust me.”
It’s my turn to bark out a laugh at the absurdity of me trusting a very hostile relative stranger. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”
Azrael tilts his head to the side, like he’s trying to figure me out. “Why?”
I shrug. “Because I don’t trust anyone, really.”
The only two people I trust are Charlie and Coop. Even their parents, who are more like parents to me than my own, I don’t fully trust.
His brows jump up in surprise. “No one? Not even your family?”
I let out a bitter laugh. “No, certainly not my family.” My family is the reason I have trust issues. I learned early on not to believe pretty words because they often hide the ugliest lies.
“Sounds like you need better family.” His eyes soften a fraction before he shutters his expression. If I weren’t watching him, I would’ve missed it.
“You can’t choose your family.” If I could, I sure as hell would’ve chosen differently. The only one I’d choose to be related to is Wren. My parents and brother can go fuck themselves.
“Not your blood family, no,” he concedes. “Some of us get dealt shitty hands in that regard. But you can choose who you call ‘family’ and find people who aren’t blood but would go to the ends of the earth for you.”
I wonder what Azrael’s story with his family is. I don’t know him that well, but I know him enough to be fairly certain he wouldn’t tell me even if I asked.
“I’m glad you’ve found that,” I whisper, suddenly exhausted from all the feelings he’s been dredging up. I was just trying to fix my bike, not start a therapy session with him. “Can we go now?”
His swirling gold gaze bounces between my eyes a few times before he gives me a sharp nod. Grabbing my helmet, he links our comms together without asking. I huff at his heavy-handedness but don’t say anything as I finish gearing up.
When I’m good to go, I make sure all the plastics and other random ZX-6R parts are firmly in the parking space. I don’tbother to lock them in my apartment. The fairings, fastenings, and tank are pretty easy to replace and a weird thing to steal. I doubt anyone will touch them, but I won’t be heartbroken if they aren’t here when I get back.
Hopefully I won’t be gone long enough to give anyone the opportunity to steal the parts, either.
Azrael’s black-and-red bike is parked a few spaces over from mine. Once he straddles it, I climb onto the back, using his broad shoulders to steady myself.
Like most sports bikes, especially race-oriented ones like Ducatis, the passenger seat is small, cramped, and uncomfortable as fuck. I also have to practically lie on top of Azrael because his giant frame eats into what little space I do have. Keeping as much distance as I can, I resign myself to this being the world’s most unpleasant ride.
Hesitantly wrapping my arms around him, I’m surprised when he grabs my wrists in one hand and tugs. I let out anoofas I slam into his back. He winds my arms tighter around his abdomen and takes off without warning me.
I clutch him desperately, feeling like I’m about to fall off.
When he aggressively leans into a corner for the first time, I chant “fuck, fuck, fuck” like a prayer until the bike is upright again.
His raspy laugh echoes in my helmet. “You’re fine. We barely even leaned. Your tires must have the world’s biggest chicken strips if that tiny lean scares you.”
I narrow my eyes at him, even though he can’t see it. There’s nothing wrong with having the stripes of unworn rubber on the outside edge of your tires. It just means you’re not dumb enough to lean your bike super far on the street.
Unfortunately, I am dumb enough to lean much too far when I’m trying to outrun the memories. So, I have pretty thin chicken strips for not bringing my ZX-6R to the track. Maybe one ofthese days, I’ll try it, but I’m content just riding the streets for now.
“I’m fine leaning when I’m in control.” I mean to growl, but it comes out breathy from the adrenaline instead. “I’m not okay with it when we’re going felony speeds and I’m riding behind a dude I barely know.”
I don’t actually know how fast we’re going. Azrael’s massive frame blocks the dash from my view, but it feels like we’re going at least a hundred.
