It felt a little like a déjà vu.
My eyes dropped to his boots. They were very similar to the ones I saw him wear the night of the gala. Military style, with buckles.
Then I took the helmet. The weight of it shocked me. Heavy, padded, faintly chemical. It reeked of new plastic and a whisper of scent that wasn't unpleasant. My hands shook. I told myself it was the endorphin dump, but there was something else, too.
I struggled with the strap, fingers numb and stupid. He watched. Or at least I figured he did. He was motionless, visor pointed at me like the barrel of a camera. No help. Just infinite patience, the patience of someone who could outlast the universe itself.
When I finally managed to secure the helmet, he tapped the space behind him with a gloved hand.
I looked at the bike, at the seat, at him. I'd never been on a motorcycle before. But the scarier part was the idea of touching another person—of being that close. It sent a voltage through my ribs. I hadn't let a man touch me in three years. Having one stuck between my thighs suddenly terrified me.
For a second, I wanted to run. But the idea of someone following me was scarier than the idea of riding the bike.
I chose the Devil I knew.
I approached, heart in my throat, and swung a leg over. I sat down, careful not to let our bodies touch. The leather seat was high and a little slippery and my world was warped by the helmet's visor.
He revved the engine.
The whole bike vibrated under me, shaking my bones loose.
He shouted over the noise, "Hold tight."
I hesitated again, looked around. There was nothing to grab except for his torso.
He didn't speak, just pulled the throttle, and the bike bucked forward. My hands instinctively grabbed his jacket, fingers curling into the thick leather at his waist. We moved and I fell forward, slid on the seat, erasing whatever space was still between us. His back was a wall, warm and unyielding and rock-hard. The smell of him—leather, aftershave, a memory of something safe—hit me and made my vision swim.
He drove like he did everything else—with surgical efficiency, no wasted motion, no show-off. The city bled past in a haze of bright lamps and smeared taillights. I pressed closer, not by choice, but because of inertia, because physics dictated it.
Something about it—the helplessness, the speed—should have triggered the worst parts of my brain. Instead, something else happened. I realized, with a jolt, that I wasn't afraid. Not really. Not of him, or the bike, or the city screaming past.
I felt…protected, and it made no sense.
He pulled to a stop in front of my building and flipped his visor. The engine was still idling. I didn't move at first. I couldn't. My body was still in shock from the ride, every muscle wound tight.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, emotionless.
"No. Sorry." I disengaged myself from his back, withdrew my hands.
My legs felt rubbery and unreliable when I was getting off the bike. I fumbled with the strap, took off the helmet, and handed it to him.
He took it without saying a single word. His head was angled just enough for me to catch sight of his eyes. They were gray and unsettling. The rest of his face wasn't visible.
"Thanks," I croaked.
"Go inside," he replied. "Turn on the light."
I wanted to ask why, but I didn't have the guts. Instead, I nodded and stepped away, but before I could get more than two feet, I turned around. "Thanks," I said, for the second time tonight.
His eyes found mine in the light spilling from the building. There was nothing soft in his expression, but there was something like understanding and it made my heart shrivel in my chest. Not in the bad way. More like an invisible hand reached out to touch it and it reacted.
I forced my feet to the door. It was glass, and in the reflection, I lookedlike a scared child—ponytailed, wide-eyed. The lock jammed, then gave, and I slipped inside.
The lobby was silent. I took the stairs, two at a time, ignoring the elevator. I was terrified to be in small spaces right now and I needed to get rid of all that pent-up anxiety. Exercising was perfect.
As I reached my floor and stood in front of my door, my hands started trembling more than usual, causing me to almost drop the key. Once inside, I quickly locked the deadbolt.
First thing I did was turn on the light like he'd asked. Not the overheads, just one of the lamps in the corner. Then I walked to the window facing the street and looked out.
