Page 11 of My Reckless Biker

Outside, the air is barely cooler than it was inside.

He walks me to his bike without speaking and I get on behind him, arms around his waist again, and this time I know what to expect.

The engine roars and we're moving.

I'm holding on to someone who thinks I'm lying, who's waiting for me to prove him right, and I don't know how to prove him wrong when he's already decided.

The ride back is faster than the ride there, like he's done what he needed to do and now he just wants it over with.

When we pull into the yard and he kills the engine, I let go and slide off before he can say anything.

He doesn't walk me to the door. Doesn't say goodnight. Doesn't acknowledge the last hour beyond a quick nod that could mean anything.

Just watches me cross the yard and climb the stairs to the second floor, and I can feel his eyes on my back the whole way.

Inside my room, I close the door and move to the window.

He's still there in the yard, standing beside his bike, and he's looking up at my window like he knew I'd be here watching.

Our eyes meet through the glass and across the distance and for a moment neither of us looks away.

Then he turns and walks toward the clubhouse and I'm alone with the understanding that this arrangement just got much more complicated than I thought it would be.

Because I don't just want to prove I'm not lying.

I want him to believe me.

And that want is personal and dangerous and has nothing to do with survival or strategy or anything I can control.

I want Diesel to look at me and see something other than my father's name.

I want him to see me.

And I don't know if that's even possible when he's already decided what I am.

Chapter 3 — Diesel

I'm at her door at seven thirty in the morning because if this is real, if she's actually choosing this life, she needs to understand it doesn't run on her schedule.

I knock twice, sharp and loud enough to wake her if she's sleeping.

Thirty seconds later the door opens and she's standing there in the same jeans as yesterday but a different shirt, dark grey and fitted across curves I'm trying not to notice.

Her hair is down instead of pulled back, falling past her shoulders in a dark curtain that makes her look softer.

But her eyes are alert, no sleep-fog, like she was already awake when I knocked.

"Get dressed for a ride," I say. "We're leaving in ten."

"Where are we going?"

"Does it matter?"

She studies me for a second and I can see her calculating, trying to figure out what this is and whether she should push back or just comply.

"No," she says finally. "I'll be ready."

The door closes and I head back downstairs. She comes down exactly nine minutes later, hair pulled back again, boots that look designed for fashion rather than function but they'll work.