Page 9 of My Reckless Biker

I leave my hand under his even though I want to pull away, even though his touch feels like something everyone in this bar can see and I'm on display in ways I spent years learning to avoid. In my father's world, visibility was liability. Being noticed meant being used.

Here, visibility is the point.

"What happens when the pictures reach my father?" I ask.

"He reacts. Hopefully loud, hopefully angry, hopefully in a way that tells us this wasn't his idea and he didn't see it coming." His eyes are flat and steady on mine, and there's no pretense now. "We learn what kind of reaction it is, and that tells us more about you than we knew before."

"You mean you learn whether I warned him this was coming."

"That's exactly what I mean." His thumb stops moving but his hand stays on mine. "You're Victor Crane's daughter. You walked into our territory with perfect timing and perfect information, and that's either the bravest thing I've ever seen or the most calculated. Until you prove which one it is, I'm assuming you're exactly what you look like."

"Which is what?"

"Someone playing us. Someone working for your father, feeding us information that's just real enough to be convincing until you're in deep enough to do real damage."

The word sits between us like something sharp.

I should be angry. Should be offended or defensive or something other than what I actually am, which is tired of people looking at me and seeing my father's name instead of me.

But anger is wasted energy and I learned a long time ago not to waste energy on things I can't control.

"I'm not lying to you," I say quietly.

"Then you won't mind proving it."

"How am I supposed to prove something that's true? You've already decided I'm lying. Anything I say or do, you're going to interpret through that lens. So tell me, how exactly do I prove I'm not what you think I am when you're looking for evidence that I am?"

He's quiet for a moment, studying my face like he's actually considering the question instead of just dismissing it.

"By staying," he says finally. "By not flinching when your father comes for you. By being exactly where you are when it gets dangerous instead of disappearing the second things go bad. By showing me that this is real and not a game you're playing with my brothers' lives."

"And if I do all that? If I stay and I don't flinch and I'm still here when the danger comes? Will that be enough or will you just find another reason not to trust me?"

"I don't know yet. Ask me after we see what your father does."

Someone walks past our table, close enough that I can smell perfume and cigarettes. Diesel's hand tightens on mine briefly before releasing.

The moment breaks and he's leaning back again, casual, like we were just having a normal conversation instead of him telling me he thinks I'm lying.

"Come here," he says.

"What?"

"Come sit next to me. People who are together don't sit across from each other like we're having a business meeting. We need to look like we actually like each other."

He's right. Of course he's right.

I stand and move around the table, sliding into the chair beside him. Immediately the proximity is different.

Our thighs are touching. His arm drapes across the back of my chair. When he shifts to look at me his face is close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his eyes are dark and assessing and never stop working.

This is what couples do. This is what it looks like when two people want to be close to each other.

Except he doesn't want to be close to me. He's performing.

And I'm performing.

And everyone in this bar is watching us perform and believing it, and the only people who know it's fake are the two of us sitting here lying with our bodies while we tell each other the truth with our words.