Chapter Three
Ollie
“Stop checking the window, dork. You act like you’ve never had a date before.” Was this a date? Diesel had asked if I wanted to go for a ride on his motorcycle, and I’d said yes. That didn’t mean he was asking me out.
I checked the window for the fifty-seventh time. My reflection in the glass stared back at me, judging my sanity. The plaid shirt clashed with my hazel eyes, making me look vaguely seasick. Fashion was not my strong suit on a good day, and today had officially crossed into disaster territory.
Spinning away from the window, I headed for my bedroom.
Four shirts lay scattered across my bed like casualties of war.
The blue one made me look washed out. The red one screamed “trying too hard.”
The grey one was just depressing. The yellow one—why did I even own a yellow shirt?
Nobody looked good in yellow unless they were a sunflower.
I grabbed the blue one again and held it up to my face in the mirror above my dresser.
Still washed out, but maybe in better lighting it would look less corpse-like.
Maybe Diesel wouldn’t notice. Maybe I was overthinking this entire situation because my brain had apparently decided today was the day to completely malfunction.
The shirt went over my head. I tugged it into place, adjusted the collar, then immediately pulled it back off. Too casual. Or not casual enough? What did one wear to a maybe-date on a motorcycle with a man who looked like he could bench-press a small car?
My hands reached for the grey shirt. Neutral. Safe. The Switzerland of wardrobe choices.
Three minutes later, I stood in front of the mirror wearing grey and feeling like I’d given up on life. The fabric hung on my frame like I’d borrowed it from someone larger. Which I had. My older brother, three years ago, before we’d stopped speaking.
Not thinking about that right now.
Back to the red shirt. I pulled it on, smoothed it down, and examined the result. The color brought out the gold flecks in my eyes. Made my skin look less like I spent all my time indoors, which I mostly did. This could work. This was working.
A rumble echoed from outside, deep and throaty, the sound of a motorcycle engine cutting through the evening air.
My stomach dropped to somewhere around my knees then bounced back up to lodge in my throat. He was here. Diesel was here, and I was standing in my bedroom having a crisis about shirt colors like some kind of neurotic fashion victim.
I ran for the bathroom. Mouthwash. I needed mouthwash. Had I brushed my teeth? Yes. Twenty minutes ago. But what if I’d eaten something since then? I hadn’t eaten anything, but my mouth felt weird. Everything felt weird.
The mouthwash burned its way across my tongue, minty and aggressive. I spat, rinsed, checked my teeth in the mirror for any visible flaws. No spinach. Good. Hadn’t eaten spinach in three days, but the paranoia was real.
My hands gripped the edge of the sink. One breath. Two. This was fine. Everything was fine. Just a guy going for a ride with another guy who may or may not have been asking me on a date. Completely normal. Happened every day. People did this without having minor panic attacks in their bathrooms.
I forced my fingers to release the sink and walked back through my apartment. The space suddenly felt too small, too cluttered with my nervous energy. My keys sat on the counter. Wallet in my pocket. Phone charged. All the essentials accounted for.
The doorbell rang.
My feet carried me to the door before my brain could lodge any further objections. The handle felt cool under my palm as I pulled it open.
Diesel stood on my doorstep, and my lungs forgot how to process oxygen.
He’d changed out of his work clothes. Dark jeans that fit him perfectly, a black T-shirt that did absolutely nothing to hide the muscle underneath, and that leather vest that made him look like he’d stepped out of some alternate universe where everyone was impossibly attractive.
His blue eyes met mine, and something in his expression softened.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” My voice came out steadier than expected. Minor miracle. “Come in? Or are we heading out?”
“We can head out if you’re ready.” His gaze traveled down then back up, taking in the red shirt. “You look good.”
“Thanks. You too. I mean you look good too. Not that you don’t always look good, just—I’m going to stop talking now.”
His mouth curved into a smile that should’ve been illegal. “Don’t stop on my account.”
“My account is overdrawn on coherent sentences today.”
“I’ll take what I can get.” He stepped back, gesturing toward the motorcycle parked at the curb. A beast of chrome and black metal that looked like it could outrun my entire existence. “You ever been on a bike before?”
“Once. My cousin took me for a ride when I was sixteen. I spent the entire time convinced I was going to die.”
“Did you?”
“Jury’s still out.”
Diesel laughed, the deep sound making me bite my lip. He reached behind him and produced a helmet, holding it out to me. “This’ll help with the not-dying part.”
“Reassuring.” I took the helmet, turning it over in my hands. Black with a tinted visor and significantly nicer than the one my cousin had given me, which had smelled like arm pits and cigarettes.
Following him down the steps, I watched the way he moved—confident, easy, like he knew exactly where his body was in space at all times. Meanwhile, I’d tripped over my own feet twice this morning just walking to the kitchen.
The motorcycle waited at the curb like a patient predator. Diesel swung his leg over and settled onto the seat, the machine barely moving under his weight. He looked back at me, one eyebrow raised in a silent question.
Right. I was supposed to get on the death trap.
I pulled the helmet on, adjusting the strap under my chin. The world narrowed slightly through the visor and sounds became muffled. Diesel patted the seat behind him, and I climbed on with significantly less grace than he’d demonstrated.
The seat was smaller than expected. Or maybe Diesel was just bigger. Either way, there wasn’t much space between us, and my hands hovered awkwardly in the air. I was too nervous to grip his waist.
“Hold on to me,” Diesel said, glancing back. “Unless you want to end up as a hood ornament.”
My hands found his waist, fingers curling into the leather vest. He was completely solid under my grip, and my brain was having feelings about this that I absolutely could not process while sitting on a motorcycle.
The engine roared to life between my legs, vibrating through my entire body. Diesel’s hand covered mine briefly, adjusting my grip to something more secure. Then he kicked the stand up, and we rolled forward.
The world blurred. Buildings streaked past as we merged onto the main road, and I tightened my hold on Diesel’s waist, pressing closer without thinking about it.
Wind rushed around us even at moderate speed, and I understood why the helmet was necessary.
Without it, my face would’ve been flayed clean off by air resistance.
We rode through town, past the senior center where I’d be tomorrow morning, past Budget Foods and its sad produce section, past the coffee shop where Greta’s married barista worked. The sun hung low on the horizon, painting everything in shades of gold and blue that matched Diesel’s eyes.
After fifteen minutes, we turned off onto a smaller road that wound up into the hills.
Trees lined both sides, their branches forming a canopy overhead that filtered the fading sunlight into patterns on the asphalt.
The air cooled as we climbed, and I found myself relaxing into the ride, into the rhythm of the bike and the solid presence of the man in front of me.
The road opened up into a clearing, and Diesel slowed, pulling off onto a dirt overlook. He killed the engine, and sudden silence rushed in to fill the space the motorcycle had occupied. My ears rang slightly in the absence of noise.
Maybe tonight calls for an alpha with a soft spot—or a heroine who refuses to back down.
See what fits the mood at Lokepub.
“We’re here,” he said, unnecessary but somehow comforting.
I climbed off the bike with shaky legs, pulling the helmet off and setting it on the seat. The view stretched out in front of us—miles of valley, the town nestled at the bottom like a toy village, and, beyond that, more hills rolling into the distance until they faded into blue haze.
“Wow,” I said, because my vocabulary had shrunk to single syllables in this man’s presence.
“I come here a lot.” Diesel dismounted and walked to the edge of the clearing, stopping a safe distance from the drop-off. “Good place to think.”
Joining him, I stood close enough that our arms almost touched. The air smelled like pine and earth and something wild that didn’t have a name. Below us, tiny cars crawled along roads, and I could just make out the senior center’s parking lot.
“Do you bring all your maybe-dates here?” The question escaped but I didn’t want to take it back.
Diesel turned his head, blue eyes catching the last rays of sunlight. “This a maybe-date?”
“I don’t know. Is it?”
“Do you want it to be?”
My breath caught. “I asked you first.”
“You did.” He turned, facing me fully now, and the movement brought him closer. “Yeah. This is a date. If you’re okay with that.”
“I’m very okay with that.” I was so okay with it that my entire nervous system had decided to throw a parade. “Just wanted to make sure I wasn’t misreading signals.”
“You’re not.” His hand reached up, fingers brushing my jaw, and my breath caught. “Been thinking about this since you handed me that ratchet.”
“The ratchet did it for you?”
“You do it for me.” His thumb traced along my cheekbone, and I leaned into the touch without meaning to. “The ratchet was just there.”
My laugh came out shaky. “I have that effect on people. Very ratchet-adjacent.”
“Ollie.”
“Yeah?”
“Stop talking.”