Page 41

“Been a while.”

Her eyes flick up. “How long?”

“None of your business.”

“You asked if I was a virgin.”

“You volunteered that information.”

“After you interrogated me.”

“I asked two questions.”

“Fine. How long?”

I unlock the garage. “Long enough.”

“That’s evasive.”

“That’s intentional.”

I shove the door upward. It catches halfway. I swear, duck beneath it and force it the rest of the way.

Dust hangs in the stale air.

Clara steps in behind me.

Then I see it.

And every smart-ass answer in my head disappears.

The Indian sits beneath a gray canvas cover in the back corner.

Same place Dad kept it when I was a kid.

I don’t move.

“Ryder?”

“Yeah.”

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

She doesn’t tell me I’m obviously not fine. Another thing I’m starting to like about her.

I walk over and grab the cover. One pull sends dust everywhere.

Clara coughs.

“Sorry.”

Then the motorcycle appears.

Black and red. Chrome dulled beneath years of neglect. Leather cracked. Tires nearly flat.

Beautiful anyway.