"Yes?" My voice comes out smaller than I want it to. I clear my throat. "How did you—"
"Saw you leave." He sets the helmet on the bike's seat, crossing his arms. "East Fremont's forty-five minutes by bus this time of night."
"So?"
"So, it's almost eleven. You've got a kid waiting, right?"
Someone told him. Which means the club probably knows about Marcus, knows I'm living in a shithole motel, knows I'm one bad break away from being completely fucked.
"I'll be fine," I say, even though we both know it's a lie. "The bus is—"
"Forty-five minutes," he repeats. "I can get you there in ten."
It takes me a second to understand what he's offering. When I do, I actually laugh, a sharp, disbelieving sound. "You want to give me a ride? On that?"
"Unless you'd prefer to wait." He doesn't move, doesn't push. Just stands there like he has all the time in the world, like offering strange waitresses rides home on his motorcycle is a perfectly normal Thursday night activity.
"I don't... I've never been on a motorcycle before."
"I'll go slow."
This is a terrible idea. I don't know this man. He's a biker, an enforcer, someone who just put another man in the hospital without breaking a sweat. He's exactly the kind of dangerous Iswore I'd stay away from. But he also protected me. Defended me. Looked at me like I mattered, like the thought of someone touching me without permission was enough to make him lose control.
When was the last time anyone defended me?
When was the last time anyone looked at me like I was worth protecting?
"Why?" I ask. "Why would you do this?"
"Because you shouldn't be waiting alone at a bus stop at midnight when I can get you home safe." He tells me without the slightest hesitation.
"You don't know me."
"No." His eyes hold mine, steady and unflinching. "But I know what it's like to have no one. And I know what this city does to people who are alone."
"I should say no," I tell him, “I don’t even know your name.”
"Probably. And I’m Jake."
"I should wait for the bus and forget tonight happened and just... keep my head down and do my job."
"If that's what you want." He doesn't move toward me, doesn't try to convince me. Just waits, patient as stone.
And maybe that's what decides it. The fact that he's offering without demanding. Protecting without controlling. Giving me the choice when I've had so few choices lately that I've almost forgotten what they feel like.
"Ten minutes?" I ask.
"Ten minutes."
I stand, my legs unsteady. "Okay."
He turns back to the bike, pulling the helmet off the seat. "You'll need this."
"What about you?"
"I'll be fine." He holds it out, and I take it. I fumble with the helmet, and he steps closer. "Here. Let me."
His hands are surprisingly gentle as he adjusts the fit, his fingers grazing my jaw and neck. He smells like leather and motor oil and something manly, something that makes me want to lean in and breathe him in.
