15. Coraline
15
CORALINE
Jagger doesn’t leave his perch as a shield until Grant and his buddies are out of sight.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
Jagger looks over at me, throwing his arm across my shoulder. He’s getting a little too comfortable with that move. But considering he just saved my ass, I don’t call him out on it like I would have a couple of hours ago. “C’mon, girlfriend. Let’s get you to your car.”
“Yeah, about that. My car won’t start. And I was trying to call my brother to help, but I didn’t have any service and?—”
“I’ll take care of it,” he interrupts.
I blink a few times, scooting out from underneath his arm to face him. “What do you mean you’ll take care of it?”
He cocks his head to the side. “I know it’s been awhile, but you do remember I’m a mechanic, right?”
I roll my eyes and scoff. “I know that. I meant that you didn’t have to do that. I’ll call Graham or Beau. They’ll take care of it. I just need to borrow your phone for a second if you don’t mind.”
“Ah,” he says with a tsk. “See, that’s where I do mind though. Because I’m not going to leave you here in the middle of the night. Looks like you’re with me tonight, baby.”
“Don’t call me baby.” I say it automatically, but it lacks its usual fire or strength.
He only grins, jerking his head toward my car. “Lock it up. My bike is this way.”
I’m too tired to push back like I normally would, so I grab my purse and keys from the driver’s seat before locking the car. We walk side by side for two blocks in companionable silence. He doesn’t try to throw his arm around my shoulders, and I realize with a start that I’m . . . disappointed ?
No , I think with a shake of my head. That can’t be true. I’m probably just dehydrated.
Before long, we’re back at Grand Avenue, and my steps slow as realization slams into me. “This is a motorcycle.”
“It is.”
“This is your bike .”
His lips twitch. “Don’t tell me. You’ve never been on a bike before.”
I bristle at the teasing in his tone, shifting my weight to my other foot. “So what if I haven’t?”
“Baby, you grew up in a motorcycle town,” he says like that explains everything.
Growing up in Rosewood meant everyone I knew was obsessed with getting the coveted seat on the back of a Reaper’s bike. In fact, too many girls I went to school with made it their life’s goal to secure that seat. A lot of them went on to become bunnies—club girls. Someone who hangs out all the time, can usually crash there if she needs to. Tends to all the Reapers’ needs—whenever they need it.
There’s a misguided notion that the more a bunny helps a Reaper—or many Reapers—the higher her chances are of being selected to be on the back of someone’s bike. It’s kind of like the equivalent of what Nana Jo called going steady. It’s a commitment, a declaration.
Or at least it was.
The way Evangeline tells it, when her husband, Silas St. James, took over as president for the Reapers six or seven years ago, he started making changes. He did away with some of the more archaic—and sexist—rules, but bunnies are still as much around now as they always were. I just think they’re given more freedom in their choices now.
“Yeah, well. So did you.” As far as retorts go, it’s weak.
Laughter spills from him, unbidden and pure. Some of my annoyance melts away like ice cream on a summer day. Sticky remnants remain, but the frostiness is gone.
“Actually, I didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?”
“Grow up in Rosewood. Or did you forget that we didn’t go to school together?” he teases, pulling something from the back of his bike.
“Oh. Actually, yeah, I guess I kind of did. And there are two schools in Rosewood, just to be clear. It’s possible that you went to the private one. But none of that changes the fact that I haven’t been on a bike before,” I murmur the last part, nerves dampening my voice.
“It’s alright, baby. You can trust me.”
My gaze cuts to him before I even think. I narrow my eyes. “ Really ?”
He dips his chin in acknowledgment. “With this. You can trust me with this.”
I blow out a breath. “Fine. But I need a helmet. Nonnegotiable.”
He grins, showing a flash of his teeth in the night. “Of course. C’mere. I’ll get you squared away.”
I step into his open arms and let him pull a dark hooded sweatshirt over my head. It dwarfs me in size, but drenches me in his smell. That crisp ocean breeze. I didn’t realize a smell could be inherently sexy like this. I lift the collar to my nose, and breathe the scent in deep.
“Are you sniffing my sweatshirt?” he says with a chuckle.
“What? No.” I drop the sweatshirt and let the sleeves fall over my hands. “Smells terrible actually. You really should wash this thing.”
“Yeah, well, this thing will give you another layer of protection against the wind. It’s colder than you think on the back of a bike, even during summers here.”
He grabs a helmet from somewhere, and before I get the chance to question what he’s going to wear, he’s slipping my scrunchie free. My hair tumbles over my shoulders in a mess of waves. He smooths it back, slipping the helmet over my head.
It fits snugly, blocking out the ambient sounds of the night around us. I feel a surge of nervous excitement as he fastens the straps securely under my chin. His hand lingers for a moment, his touch gentle and warm against my skin. I glance up at him, and his eyes meet mine, sparking something unspoken between us. The moment stretches, filled with unspoken possibilities.
I clear my throat and step back, breaking the spell. “I don’t know how to get on,” I admit, standing next to the bike.
How many women have been on the back of your bike is what I really want to ask. But I don’t have any right to that answer.
“I’ll help you.”
Before I even start to worry about how the hell I’m going to get on his motorcycle, his hands are on my hips and my feet are off the ground. The air leaves my lungs in a whoosh as he picks me up as easily as I pick up a mixing bowl. I blink and I’m on the back of his bike.
“Put your hands here until I get on,” he instructs, pointing to the little bars behind my seat.
I do as he says and watch as he swings his leg over his bike, settling his feet on either side of the machine. It roars to life, like some kind of disgruntled beast being woken in the middle of the night. The exhaust is loud, enough so that if we were in a residential area, I’d be worried someone would call the cops for a noise complaint.
He reaches back without looking and takes my hands in his, pulling me so I’m flush against his back. I follow his lead and wrap my arms around his waist, feeling the warmth of his body seeping through the thick cotton sweatshirt.
He’s surrounding me, invading all my senses.
He taps my right leg twice with his index finger. “Hold on, baby.”
I adjust my hold and exhale a slow breath. The wind rushes past us, billowing the back of my sweatshirt behind me. Cool air zips up my spine, and I bury my face into his back. My heart races with a heady mix of fear and exhilaration as we speed down the empty roads, the world reduced to a blur of lights and shadows.
All too soon we’re in front of my place. The last maisonette flat on the end of the block. Pale cornflower blue with shiny black trim. It’s a three-story apartment, so even though it sounds crowded to have four women living in one apartment, it’s actually quite spacious.
Jagger holds out his hand, and I place mine in his without question. Using it as a guide, I swing my leg over his bike. My leg muscles feel a little like jello, all wiggly and unstable.
“Thanks for the ride,” I murmur, handing him his helmet.
He eyes the second floor of our maisonette—the bedrooms. “That Grant guy know where you live?”
His question gives me pause. “Why?”
Her jerks his chin toward the darkened windows. “Don’t you normally leave a light on?”
My head tilts to the side, and I look from him to my apartment. “Most of the time, yeah. But that’s more for the girls than me.”
“They’re not home?”
I shake my head, slipping my arm free of his hoodie. “Not tonight. Out of town for work, vacationing with family all summer, visiting boyfriend.” I tick off the reasons for my empty apartment.
His hand lands on my arm. “Keep it. Want me to come up?”
Slipping my hand back through the sleeve, I let the sweatshirt settle on my upper thighs. I chuckle. “As much as I enjoyed this little . . . truce of ours, I don’t think that’d be a good idea.”
“Truce, hm?”
“Truce,” I repeat with a nod, stepping backward onto the sidewalk. “Only for tonight.”
The corner of his mouth hooks into a small grin. “There she is.” He jerks his chin toward me, watching me with an uncanny intensity, like he’s mentally cataloging my slow walk toward my apartment.
“Thank you, Jagger. For tonight.”
“You feelin’ grateful enough to give me your strawberry shortcakes?” he teases, one brow cocked.
I tip my head back and laugh, twisting around to face my apartment.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he shouts.
“Goodnight, Jagger,” I call over my shoulder.
“Night, baby,” he says with less humor in his voice.
He stays parked in front of my house until I get inside. Until I change my clothes and take my makeup off. He’s still in front of my house, looking at something on his phone, when I crawl into bed.