Her lips part a little like she’s surprised I’m asking. “Yeah. I mean, I’ve never been on one, but-”
“I’ll be careful,” I promise, the words come out before I can stop them. Too soft. Too honest. Sadie’s gaze flicks to mine. A heartbeat of quiet passes between us, the kind that says she heard what I meant, not just what I said.
“Okay,” she murmurs. “I trust you.”
Trust. That word lands like a fist.
I hand her the spare helmet and watch her put it on, fingers fumbling with the strap. I step closer without thinking, take the ends from her hands.
“Let me,” I mutter, tightening it, checking it twice. My knuckles brush the underside of her jaw. She goes still. So do I. That spot right under her ear is warm. The pulse there jumps when I touch it. I feel it because I’m too close and because apparently, I’ve lost all common sense when it comes to Sadie Brooks.
“You’re good.” I clear my throat roughly, stepping back like the air is on fire.
Sadie bobs her covered head. “Cool. So, Graceland?”
“Yep.” I swing a leg over the bike. “Hop on.”
She hesitates for half a second. Then she climbs on behind me, careful, light. Her hands hover like she doesn’t know where she’s allowed to touch.
I keep my voice even. “Hold on to me.”
“Dean…” My name unsure on her lips.
“Sadie.” I glance over my shoulder. “It’s a motorcycle. Don’t make this weird.”
Her laugh is small, breathy. “You started weird.”
Which is fair. She slides closer, arms wrapping around my waist. Her body presses into my back, hips snug against mine and, Jesus, every nerve I own lights up. When I start the engine, the vibration goes straight through both of us. She stiffens, then relaxes as I pull out of the lot and into Memphis traffic.
We don’t talk. We don’t need to. The city rolls by in flashes of color. Murals, barbecue joints, tourists crossing Beale Street even this early, the river glinting off to the left like a blade. The air is thick and sweet, and Sadie’s arms are a steady, warm band around me.
It should feel like a hookup. Just a convenience. It’s a much-needed day off. Instead, it feels like something I don’t have a name for anymore.
We hit the highway and I open the throttle a little, just enough to feel the wind bite. Behind me Sadie tightens her grip, her cheek brushing my shoulder. It’s nothing, and yet, it feels like everything.
I’ve been on bikes since I was sixteen. I know the language of speed, the way it clears your head, the way it makes you feel like you can outrun anything chasing you. Today, though?
Today I’m not outrunning anything. I’m letting it catch me.
Graceland comes into view like a church. White columns. Iron gates. That manicured driveway you’ve seen in a million photos. In real life it’s smaller than the legend and bigger than my chest can handle, both at the same time.
I park, kill the engine. Sadie slides off behind me, tugging off her helmet. Her hair is helmet-messy, her cheeks are pink, and she looks alive in a way I haven’t seen since… ever.
“Okay, I get it.” Her eyes pop wide as she gazes up at the house. “This is actually really gorgeous.”
I grunt like I’m not vibrating. “Yeah.”
We walk through the gates with a small crowd of tourists. Nobody notices me under the hat and sunglasses. If they do, they’re polite enough not to say anything.
Inside, the first thing that hits is the quiet. Not silence, but a hush. Like people are stepping into someone else’s memory. Sadie falls into photographer mode, lens up, eyes darting across details. She’s good. Always has been. She doesn’t just take pictures, she catches stories.
By the time we get to the Jungle Room, it’s hard to contain my awe, mostly because I can’t hide it. The green carpet. The carved wood. The waterfall wall. The sheer ridiculousness of it and the way it still feels sacred.
“This is where he made music,” I blurt before I can stop myself.
Sadie’s lens drops. “Yeah?”
I nod, throat tight. “Not the stage stuff. The private stuff. The stuff you do when there aren’t cameras and crowds and expectations.”
