Page 12 of My Reckless Biker

"Let's go," I say.

Outside, the morning is already warm, cicadas starting their noise in the trees past the fence line.

My bike is where I left it last night and she gets on behind me without hesitation this time, arms around my waist like she's done it a hundred times instead of once.

Her body presses against my back, warm even through my shirt and the cut. Her hands settle flat on my stomach and I can feel every point of contact, every place where her soft curves meet my harder lines.

I start the engine and the vibration runs through both of us.

Then we're moving.

I take us out of the yard and onto the county road headed east, away from Bloomfield proper and toward Route 9.

The sun is climbing higher, heat building, and the road is empty except for us and the blacktop stretching out ahead.

I can feel her behind me. The way she shifts with every turn, the way her thighs grip when I accelerate, the warmth of her chest against my back.

She's not tense. Not nervous. Just present, holding on, letting me take us wherever I'm going without question.

That's the first thing that surprises me.

Most people would ask. Most people would want to know where they're going, especially after one day with a club that doesn't trust them.

But she just got on the bike and wrapped her arms around me and trusted me not to kill us both.

Trust or calculation. I don't know which yet.

I open it up, speed climbing until we're hitting eighty on a road posted for fifty-five. Wind tears at us and her grip doesn't change, doesn't tighten in fear. Just stays steady and solid like she's done this before, like speed doesn't scare her.

The Route 9 corridor comes up fast and I take the turn harder than I need to, leaning into it, feeling her lean with me without hesitation.

Her body moves with mine like we've been riding together for years instead of hours, and that awareness settles into my chest and stays there, distracting and unwanted.

This is a test. That's all this is.

I'm taking her through Marrow territory to see if she signals someone, if she tries to make contact, if she does anything that proves she's working for her father.

That's the only reason we're out here.

The fact that I'm aware of every inch of her pressed against me, the fact that I can smell whatever she's wearing over the exhaust and road smell, the fact that her hands on my stomach feel different than they should, none of that matters.

I force myself to focus.

Route 9 stretches out ahead, two lanes cutting through scrub brush and scattered trees, and I know exactly where we are.

Half a mile ahead on the north side is where Marrow keeps a distribution point, just far enough off the road that you can't see it but close enough that they can move product fast when they need to.

Cain's intel says they keep two guys there during the day, maybe more at night.

I slow slightly as we approach, not enough to be obvious but enough that if she's going to do something, now's the time.

I watch the mirrors, looking for any sign she's moving, reaching for something, trying to signal. I feel for any shift in her weight that would mean she's doing something I can't see.

Nothing.

She just holds on to me and watches the road like this is a normal ride through the country.

I push further, another mile into territory that's definitely theirs, and I can see the turnoff ahead where they access the distribution point.