Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Highway to the danger zone
LILA
Go to your happy place. Go to your happy place.
With my eyes closed, my face buried into Reed’s back, and a death grip around his waist, I repeat the cliché phrase like it’s my new mantra.
Unfortunately, it’s zero help. Nada. Zilch. Zip.
Possibly because I don’t know where my happy place is. Do I even have one? Is that something you’re assigned at birth, or is there an application process I missed somewhere along the line?
“You okay back there?” Reed asks.
“Mm-hmm. Just hurry up and get me home.”
With a mocking tone, he says, “I thought you didn’t want me to go fast?”
“You know what I mean.”
“You’re doing great. It’s getting hard to breathe, but I’d rather that than you sliding around on the seat.”
“My thighs are clenched so tightly, there’s no chance of sliding.”
He groans. “Don’t try to get me hard while I’m driving, Lila. I don’t want to die tonight.”
Of all things, his flirting is what gets me to relax.
A tiny, itsy bitsy, little bit.
The breathy sound of his voice pouring directly into my ears through the helmet speaker isn’t hurting either.
But what really does it . . . what really brings me comfort is when he lightly grips the top of my thigh.
One hand on the wheel or handles or whatever they’re called, and the other gently rubbing my leg. The occasional pulse of his fingertips, followed by a soothing caress.
I flutter my eyes open, gaze tracking the streaks of lights from the businesses as we pass. At a reasonable speed.
He kept his promise.
So far.
But my guard is still up.
“You’re feeling better, aren’t you?” he asks.
“How can you tell?”
“You’re no longer cutting off blood flow to my lower body.”
Why does that make me think of an erection? His erection, specifically?
“It’s not so bad,” I confess, peeking around his shoulder.
In truth, I’m starting to enjoy it. And no, we won’t be telling him that. He’s already far too cocky. No further inflation is needed for his ego.
“This is my joy, Lila.”
His words sound like a confession. A secret he’s only told me.
As we drive through the streets of Tampa, my thoughts gradually move from crippling fear to something deeper.
What’s my joy?
It’s not cookies and burgers, although those are forbidden delights. And sure, it’s hard to be unhappy while eating a cookie. Yet it isn’t joy.
By the time we get to my apartment, I still haven’t figured out what brings me true happiness.
Reed has a career that brings him satisfaction and this. As terrifying as it may be, riding a motorcycle brings him happiness.
There’s nothing like that for me. Inside, I’m just . . . empty.
Thirty-one years old, and I’m not living. I’m existing.
And now I’m a criminal, aiming to seduce an FBI agent to save myself from a life sentence.
If she were still here, my sister would want better for me. I need to stop living in this constant state of paralysis, afraid to chase joy because half of me died when she did.
She wouldn’t want me to be broken.
The purr of the engine suddenly disappears as Reed turns off the motorcycle. Or powers it down. Pulls the plug? I don’t know how it works. Never cared to learn.
He pats my leg once. “You did it, cookie. Hop off. Careful of the metal pipe. It’s hot.”
“Yeah, I know. Hotter than you.”
When I get off the bike, it’s not a hop as he requested. More of a slippery slide that I recover from before I hit the concrete. Perhaps I was trying a bit too hard to avoid the metal pipe. I probably didn’t need to set my leg down three feet from the bike.
Maybe next time I’ll be smoother.
Wait. Next time? Nope. There won’t be one of those.
He dismounts the bike, the motion looking like he’s done it a thousand times. Perhaps he has. Because it’s his happy place.
When he removes his helmet, he shakes his head subtly.
Whoa mama. He looks like a model from Bikers Weekly, assuming that’s a thing.
Especially since he’s dressed casually tonight instead of the business suits he usually wears.
Perfectly fitted jeans. A dark blue Henley shirt pulled tight across his pectorals.
The sleeves pressed up toward his elbows, revealing corded forearms. Some ink is visible on one arm.
I stand there dumbstruck, watching him like a creeper. My thirsty thoughts continue spinning through a blend of hopeless despair over my lackluster life and the way everything Reed does is unfairly sexy.
Swaggering over to me, he reaches for my chin and unclasps the strap. My hands move of their own volition to the sides of the helmet. His do the same about a second later than mine. My hands end up pinned beneath his, the warmth of his touch oddly comforting.
We trade glances, and his dang dirty dimples pop. I want to lick them.
He helps me pull the helmet off. The static electricity crackles around my head.
His expression brightens as he looks at my hair, which is no doubt levitating above my head.
While he dashes to the bike to stow the helmet, I pat down the wayward strands.
Little zaps surround my fingers, confirming my suspicion.
Sure. That’s fair.
Reed gets off the bike looking like Tom Cruise in the Top Gun era, before he went couch-jumpingly crazy. And I look like I’ve stuck my finger in an electric outlet. And that’s after a clumsy attempt at removing my frumpy body from the bike. Totally tracks with my entire state of being these days.
Mr. GQ retrieves the takeout from the compartment on the back of the bike. Upon his approach, his face falls when he looks at me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I fib, affixing a plastic smile I don’t feel.
He looks crestfallen, his lips in a subtle pout and his forehead creasing. “You hated it that much?”
“No. Surprisingly, it wasn’t that bad.”
There’s a wobble in one cheek right below his prominent dimple, making me wonder if he wants to smile at my confession. If so, I bet I know why. He’s likely relieved I don’t despise the thing that brings him joy.
If I had my own thing, I wouldn’t want anyone else to hate it either.
“Then why the sad face?”
Attempting to shake off the gloom and doom, I take a deep breath. “I was just doing some thinking. That’s all. I’m fine.”
“Want to talk about it? I’m still a pretty good listener.”
My smile becomes less plastic at the memory of long talks with Reed when we were younger.
Considering that being at my house was akin to being in a room where everyone hates you, I spent a ton of time at Kenzie’s when we were growing up.
When he came home from college, things changed between us.
Instead of ignoring me or disappearing whenever I showed up, he no longer seemed annoyed by my presence.
I read a lot, usually while I was waiting for Kenzie to get ready so we could go out and do whatever dumb stuff we used to do. If Reed was home, he didn’t let me sit alone.
He’d come into the room, usually without a shirt on, and plop down beside me on the couch. We’d talk about everything and nothing. Usually, he’d be spinning a basketball on his finger in that dumb way that guys do when they can’t seem to sit still.
But yeah . . . Reed is right about one thing. He was always an exceptional listener.
When I had his ear, I felt like I could almost be myself. The real me. And I had an inkling that if I were the real me, he might still like me all the same.
Then life happened, he broke my heart, and all my childish fantasies about him ended up flushed down the toilet.
“Nope. Nothing to discuss.” I tip my head toward my apartment. “I’d better get inside to check on Kenzie.”
He chokes back a laugh and lets his eyes go for an exuberant roll around his head. “Okay. Sure.” With the hand holding the doggie bag, he gestures toward the sidewalk. “Let’s go. I’ll walk you to the door.”
Only to the door? A ball of disappointment plunges from my throat to my gut, which I promptly ignore.
Pretending to be relieved, I flippantly toss, “You’re not coming inside to torture me some more? Finally, the night is looking up.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re terrible at hiding your feelings?”
Mentally, I squawk at him and flex my talons in warning. Outwardly, I let my face fall slack.
Rubbing his nose in my transparent nonplussed act, he adds, “The secret to a good first date is to always leave her wanting more. So I’m only going as far as your door.”
“Too bad for you that this wasn’t a date and I want nothing from you except your absence.”
He winks. “Nice try, cookie. Very believable.”
Instead of confirming his theory, I opt for nonsense. “Anything can be a pinata if you hit it hard enough.”
He falls in step with me, strolling at my languid pace. Neither of us seems to be in a rush to say goodbye. I inhale when he presses his hand against the small of my back, resting it above the plump curve of my tush.
I dig for my keys to distract myself from how positively delicious that feels. How right it is for him to touch me. Anywhere or everywhere. Rough or gentle, passionate or doting. I want all of Reed’s touches.
And I always have.
Yet that’s not what this is about. I must remember what I’m doing here.
But how can I when it feels this good?
I answer my own question with a single memory from five years ago. When my heart shattered because of his lies.
When we get to the door, I drive my key into the lock with a bit more force than normal. If I’m going to be able to do this—to get the info we need out of him—then I cannot let myself lose track of what he’s capable of. I need to remember the pain he caused me.
Armed with that bitter memory, I push open the door and reach for Kenzie’s burger and my salad. “Thanks for giving me a ride home, Reed.”
I feign a smile, remembering I’m supposed to be winning him over, and I can’t do that if I’m shooting arrows at him via my eyeballs.
Using a buttery smooth voice, he says, “You’re welcome, Lila. See you soon.”
“You’re still planning on stalking my table at work, aren’t you?”