55. Couch Cuddling
Couch Cuddling
Sheridan
Okay, I get now why women ride motorcycles with a guy. It’s the closest you can get to peace on earth while feeling completely free and alive.
The only thing a little irritating is the helmet. I so very badly want to lay my head on his back and close my eyes.
That probably wouldn’t be a good idea on a moving vehicle with no sides or seatbelts. “Do they make seatbelts for these things?”
“Why do you ask?”
What I do love about these helmets—other than the fact that they protect my brain—is that I can hear Fly crystal clear in them. We can talk and ride. “Well, if for some reason, a person were to think about, say, taking a nap on the back, would that be possible? Asking for a friend.”
“No falling asleep back there, Sheri. We aren’t experienced enough for that. Nor is it the right bike.”
“Wait, what? There are bikes that can do that? Do you have one?”
“I can get us one, but not for a while. We have to be so in sync. You need to develop muscle memory.”
“Fine. Whatever. I was just hoping you could strap me in and call it good enough.”
His chuckles warm my heart. “Glad to hear you like it.”
“What’s not to like? The weather is lovely, I’m practically wrapped around a hot guy, the views are amazing, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt this alive in my life.”
“Let’s go back to wrapped around the hot guy.”
“I could, but I’m too busy holding on and watching the views. You picked the perfect road to drive down.”
“The ride home is always the best.”
What? “Why are we stopping?”
“Because it’s going to get dark soon. I haven’t fed you in hours, and I don’t want to find out how you get when hangry. Also, I have plans to continue this cuddling thing on the couch. Only then I’ll have my arms wrapped around you.”
“All of that sounds wonderful. Perfect even. How do you do this? Plan dates that are better than the last. You know, by date five or six you're going to need to take me to Paris in order to beat it.”
“Paris, you say? And what could possibly beat Paris? Don’t worry, I’m taking notes here.”
“Don’t take notes. You’re driving this thing. And Paris was just a silly dream.”
“I’d like to hear all your dreams.”
“Saying things like that will get you kissed.”
The smirk in his voice speaks loudly when he says, “That’s the idea. I want to kiss you until you never want to stop kissing me. Then I want to kiss you some more.”
That’s what I want too, more than anything, but the reality of our future makes even thinking about it too hard. “So what are you making me for dinner?”
“I was thinking we could start with a ceviche, then move on to a poached pear salad, and end with some grilled lobster and scalloped potatoes.”
“That sounds amazing. Did you order out? You didn’t need to. I could whip us up something quick.” The idea that he would spend that much money on a meal for us…it just reinforces how different our lives are.
“No restaurant. I want you all to myself. Everything is prepped in the fridge so that all I have to do is cook the lobster and the potatoes, and dinner is done.”
“You prepped…like with your own two hands?” Why does that shock me and not shock me at the same time?
“What can I say, I’m good with my hands. There’s a curve coming up. You ready to lean with me?”
When he means lean, he means lean. On occasion, it has felt like we’re riding parallel to the ground. “Ready.” I squeeze him tighter and focus on his movements.
As we hit the curve, we become one being with only a single goal: stay alive…I’m part of him.
“Perfect. Good girl.”
***
“That was absolutely the best meal I’ve ever eaten.
Is there anything you can’t do on a level beyond anyone else?
I mean, I can cook, nothing fancy, but my food always tastes good.
That was a journey on a plate. You didn’t just create a meal.
You took us to the Caribbean. All I would have needed was a few crashing waves, and I would have believed we were there. Then we ended up in New England.”
“It wasn’t all that complex.” He grabs our glasses of wine and walks over to the couch.
“Is this the part where you hug me until I forget everything else?”
“That was my plan. Also, I thought I might con you into telling me one of your secrets. Just a little something so that I know you better.”
Fly sinks down on the oversized couch and holds his arms open, like the completely, hopelessly, desperately needy woman I am, I collapse into them. “You want to know a secret? Something I’ve never told anyone?”
“It doesn’t have to be a secret. Just something I don’t know about you.”
“Something you don’t know. Do you want it to shock you? Or just a mild surprise?”
“Shock me.” He squeezes me and places a soft kiss on my cheek.
What can I tell him that won’t leave me feeling raw and exposed? Something silly. My life doesn’t have a lot of silliness in it. Most of that involves my writer friends…except…Oh, that’s perfect. “I have a tattoo.”
“What?” He sits up straighter. “You have a tattoo? Where?”
“I’d love to tell you it’s a small one on my ankle or something like that. But it’s not. When I turned eighteen, I was feeling, I don’t know, a little rebellious, so I went to a tattoo artist in town and got her to give me one.”
“What did you get?”
“You’re going to think it’s silly. Do you have a tattoo?”
“Sheri, you need to stop that. I don’t think you’re silly.
And I definitely don’t feel that anything you ever put on your body is silly.
And I only have one tattoo. It was a bit traumatizing.
Since then, I haven’t ever thought about getting another one, even though almost all my brothers have the club tattoo on their bodies somewhere. ”
“How was it traumatizing? They hurt a little, but not much.”
“I didn’t feel mine at all. It happened while I was black out drunk.”
Wait, what? “Tattoo artists won’t tattoo you drunk. It’s a law or something.”
“It’s not when you’re dumb and get drunk for the first time around stupid people you can’t trust.”
“They tattooed you without your permission.”
He nods. “It was a stupid mistake. A hard lesson to learn.”
“What did they tattoo on you?”
“My name.”
What does that mean? “Why your name?”
“The name they gave me. It’s a thing in the biker world to give a person a call name. Well, they thought they were funny, and they started calling me something rude. I must have said something to irritate them. So when I passed out, they tattooed it on my butt.”
“On your bottom. They wrote Fly across your bottom.”
“No. They tattooed a butterfly on my left cheek.”
What? “You’re telling me you have a butterfly on your left cheek?”
“Yeah, and to remind me of that lesson and never to give your trust to people who don’t deserve it, I kept the name Fly.”
“You have a butterfly on your left cheek.”
“Sheri, it’s not that funny.”
“Am I laughing? I’m not. You need to let me up. I have to show you something.”
“Your response feels odd.”
That’s because I’m in shock. I start wiggling to get up. “I need to show you something.”
“Sheri, I just told you a story about something that traumatized me, and that’s how you respond?”
I turn around and give him a peck on the lips. “You’re right. I’m sorry that happened to you…No, I’m not. That’s a lie. I’m sad it traumatized you, and I’m really glad you were able to draw strength from it instead of letting it destroy you. But I’m not sorry they put a butterfly on you.”
“Sheri?”
“Let me up.” I look him in the eye to let him know I’m serious.
His arms let go, and I pop up. Am I brave enough to do this? It’s just a tattoo. “Close your eyes?”
“What are you—”
“Just do it before I run out of courage.”
He closes his eyes. “Whatever it is that’s going on in your brain, you don’t need to hide it from me.”
“That’s the thing, My Prince, I’m actually trying to be really open with you. It’s just a little embarrassing. But you told me your story, I can show you mine.”
“Show me? Are you showing me your tattoo? Just where is your tattoo that I need to close my eyes?”
That man makes me blush. “Somewhere where no one would ever see it.”
“I’m liking this idea…a lot. Wait, who tattooed you?”
I unbutton the top button of my jeans. “You need to get over this jealous thing a little faster.”
“I’m trying.”
“Not very hard, it seems.” He’s right, but also wrong. I tug down the side of my jeans and turn to face away from him. “Fine, open your eyes.”
“Sheri, you have a cute…oh…Oh. It’s a butterfly. You have a butterfly.”
“On my left cheek.” I tug up my jeans and button my button as fast as I can. “So can you see why I don’t hate that you have a butterfly on you?”
“Yeah, princess, I can.” He holds his arms out to me.
Without any grace or pretense, I collapse into them. “Sometimes it terrifies me how exactly right we are for each other.”
“You know what that means?”
“What?” I tuck my face into his chest, not wanting to look into his eyes ever again.
“You’re right. I think you were made just for me.”
But what if my butterfly prince flies away…