Page 90 of Shatter

I stare at the black rectangle of its back for a long moment.

My fingers twitch toward it.

I pull them back under the blanket.

It isn't mine to turn over.

Last night floods back, warm and slow, and heat creeps up my throat.

Espen.

Espen Solheim.

I mouth it into the pillow without making a sound, and the feel of it on my lips makes my toes curl.

The shower cuts off.

A minute later, the bathroom door opens.

"Want to go for a ride?" Hakon's leaning in the bathroom doorway with his arms crossed, already dressed, jeans and boots and a black T-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower.

I blink up at him from the pillow.

"A ride." My voice comes out rusty. "On the bike?"

"On the bike." One corner of his mouth lifts. "Unless you'd rather sit in here and count ceiling tiles."

"There are forty-two." I push up on one elbow. "I've counted."

He laughs, low and rough, the new sound I still can't get used to.

I haven't been anywhere I picked in almost a year.

Not the motel off I-10, and not the Night Owl.

Every door I've walked through since Seattle, I walked through because I was running from something.

My throat tightens.

"Yes." I'm already throwing the blanket off. "Yes."

He has a spare helmet in the shop, matte black and a size too big.

He lowers it over my head in the gray light by the bay doors and crouches to fasten the strap.

His knuckles brush my jaw.

They don't go any lower.

He tugs the strap once, testing, and taps the top of the helmet with two fingers like he's knocking on a door.

"Feet here." He points at the passenger pegs. "Hold on to me, not the bike. When I lean, you lean with me. Don't fight it."

"Don't fight it." I swing my leg over the seat behind him. "Got it."

"And if you need me to stop, squeeze twice." He taps my knee once.

"Twice." I squeeze his ribs to show him.