15. Isak #2
Across the street was five stoplights and at least one alley and a whole lot of Cincinnati that was not me, and if the person who'd done this was watching the lot, and somebody had been watching the lot, because somebody had known which cars to hit, then the person who'd done this was about to watch her get into a car with a stranger and drive away from the only people who knew her name.
No.
"I'll take you home."
She looked up. Her thumb was paused over the app. "Oh, yeah?"
I tipped my head toward the bike.
"I don't have a helmet." Her tone said case closed.
That was true, but not for long, if I was lucky.
My jaw was tight. I made it un-tight.
The high whine of a scooter running hotter than it was built for had us both turning our heads toward the entrance.
The owner's kid rounded the far corner of the lot with a Moto Guys box strapped to his passenger pegs with a bungee cord and a prayer, braked hard five feet from me, and was unbuckling the cord before his kickstand was down.
"Kingman?"
"Yeah, that's me."
He handed me the box. I handed him five twenties. He was back on the scooter and gone before Clover had finished blinking.
She looked at me. Looked at the box. Looked at me.
"How?"
"I've got connections you don't even know about." I smiled and gave her a little wink.
I opened the box. My hands were doing something I hadn't told them to do, which was shaking a little, not enough to see, but enough to feel. I pulled out a black half-shell, plain, no logo, nothing to turn into a pink thing. Held it out to her.
She didn't take it.
"Isak."
"Yep." I continued to smile. Because, if I ever needed to be charming it was now. Just so that I could talk her into letting me protect her and take care of her for two whole minutes.
"You ordered a helmet."
"Yep, I sure did."
"When?"
Oh no. Do not say when. She was going to be pissed that I'd made a decision without talking to her about it first. Fuck. I just wanted to...
Say something else. Say anything else. Say the Lord's Prayer. Say the Gettysburg Address. Say before you answered the phone. Say the truth.
"When I saw the broken glass."
Her mouth opened a fraction and then closed again without saying anything.
The helmet was in the air between us and I was not going to be the one who took it back. My whole chest was a held breath.
She reached out and took the helmet. Not fast. Not like she was giving in. Like she'd decided. Her hand on the shell, not grabbing, just, accepting the weight of it from me.
"Okay," she said.
Something in me unclenched so hard I almost fell over.
The evening had that September edge on it and she was in a sleeveless top and I was not going to put her on a bike without the jacket. I pulled off my jacket and held that out too.
She looked at the tattoos on my arms for half a second longer than strictly necessary. Then she took the jacket.
The jacket was big on her. She had to roll the sleeves twice. She did it without comment and without looking at me doing it, which was its own kind of privacy.
I swung a leg over the bike. Kicked it over. The engine caught on the first try, which it didn't always do, and I thanked it silently.
She put the helmet on. Her hair did a quick choreography where most of the braids went inside the helmet and hung down the back. She climbed on behind me. One foot on the peg. Then the other.
Then her hands.
They found my waist like she'd thought about it first, committed to a placement, and executed. Both hands, flat, one on each side, just above the belt.
Every single thought I had about how to ride a motorcycle left my body.
I made them come back. I could not merge into Mehring Way thinking about her hands. I pulled out of the lot and onto the road and she adjusted her grip once on the first turn, a little tighter, and I told my cock it was not allowed to do anything.
The Rhinehaus was three lights away.
I hit the first one yellow and made it through. At the second one I slowed down on purpose and didn't go when it turned.
I turned my head enough that she could hear me over the engine. "So here's the thing about fake dating."
Her face was three inches from my ear. I couldn't see her, which was the only reason I had the guts.
"We should probably practice."
A pause. The light went green and I didn't take it, waved off the car behind me. "Practice."
"Yeah. For show. Gotta be convincing." I was nodding inside the helmet. "And there's a place up here, past the Rhinehaus, that's perfect for a first fake date. Real romantic. Candlelit. Very exclusive."
"Kingman, where are you taking me?"
"An ice cream shop."
The breath she let out against my neck might have been a laugh. I chose to believe it was a laugh.
This was where I should have stopped, and yet I did not, because my mouth decided we were doing a bit now and my mouth did not check with me first. "Which is actually genius if you think about it, because nobody we work with is gonna be at an ice cream shop on a Tuesday.
I mean for a fake date you'd want witnesses, technically, that's the whole point of a fake date, you want to get seen," The light cycled again.
I waved off another car. "So this is a terrible fake date, is what I'm telling you, strategically.
There will be zero witnesses, it's just gonna be us, which defeats the entire purpose.
You know what? Forget the part where I explained why it's a bad idea. "
"Isak."
"Yeah."
"Take me to the ice cream shop."
I shut my mouth and took her to the ice cream shop.
The light turned again, and I went on the green this time.
Took the right that went away from the Rhinehaus and toward Main Street, and her hands didn't move from my waist, and that took me to the ice cream shop kept sitting in my chest like a small warm heartbeat I was going to carry around the rest of the night.
The Tippled Tiger sat between a tattoo place and a convenience store, with a chalkboard on the sidewalk that had a flying pig on it, drawn in pink chalk by somebody who could actually draw. I parked at the meter. Fed it. She was already off by the time I turned around.
She handed me back the helmet. She didn't take off the jacket.
The bell on the door did a cheerful thing when I pushed it open. Inside smelled like vanilla and a faint chemical sweetness that was the nitrogen, and a kid behind the counter, maybe nineteen, looked up and said, "Hey, Isak."
"Hey, Matty."
"The usual?"
"Give us a sec. My friend here is new."
Matty grinned and went back to wiping down the nitrogen machine, which huffed a small cloud at him like it was affectionate.
Clover had stopped just inside the door. She was reading the chalkboard menu behind the counter, which ran the whole length of the back wall and was hand-lettered in every color, and her mouth was moving silently.
"Porkopolis Peanut Butter Cup, Rhine and Shine, Queen City Crème Br?lée."
"That one's new. It's good. Matty, isn't that one good?" What was I five-years-old?
"It's real good," Matty said, without looking up.
"Over-the-Rhine Fudge."
"There's also Cincinnati Chili Chocolate if you're feeling brave," Matty offered. "Nobody ever feels brave enough for that one. I don't know why we still have it."
Clover was still reading. Her finger had come up at some point to track the list and she finger-gun pointed at her choice. "Flying Pig Fudge Ripple."
Then she laughed. Not a big one. A small one, one sharp breath out through her nose, like the joke was on her and she'd decided to take the punchline.
"That one."
"You got it," said Matty.
"Flying Pig Fudge Ripple and my usual."
"Coming right up."
She turned to me, the helmet was on the counter next to her elbow. The sleeves of my jacket were still rolled twice.
"You're a regular at an ice cream place."
I tried not to snort-laugh. "I am."
"With a kid who calls you Isak instead of Kingman." She gave me a squint, but also an eyebrow raise. Very what the hell.
"I found this place the first summer I was here. Before I was all famous. So was Matty."
"How often do you come in?"
I did some quick figuring. "Twice a week. Maybe."
"Twice a week?" She bit her lip before she finished the question and it slipped through her teeth as she laughed at me.
I was having a hard time keeping my gaze off her lips. "Sometimes three."
"Isak. I had no idea you were an addict."
I did laugh this time and threw my hands up in the air. "It's across the street from the gym."
She studied me for a second with something on her face that I couldn't read fast enough to clock, and then it was gone, and she was turning back to the counter because Matty was handing over two bowls with little wooden spoons sticking out of them and a last curl of nitrogen smoke coming off the top of hers.
"Booth or window?" I said.
"Booth."
She picked the booth in the back corner, slid in, picked up the spoon, and she tucked one foot up under her on the bench. “Okay, let’s talk fake dating.”