Chapter 25
When I finally drag myself through my front door, Salem is waiting for me on the couch, two green eyes piercing through the dark of my apartment.
I close the door, and he darts over to me, rubbing his head against my ankles, meowing louder than I’ve ever heard him.
The apartment is still, the only movement the slow turn of the ceiling fan and the swish of Salem’s tail as he circles and circles and circles.
I drop my bag on the kitchen island and open the fridge out of reflex. Nothing but half a bottle of white wine, three string cheeses, and a carton of eggs. I need to buy groceries.
I settle for a string cheese and finish the wine straight from the bottle, standing in the fluorescent glare with the fridge door open.
Eventually, I pick up my phone, scanning the notifications that have amassed during my drive home. There are four new texts from Mina, one from my mother reminding me not to drink and drive tonight, and a single message from Nash.
The lock screen shows only the first line.
Trouble
Wish I could have held you for the fireworks
My thumb hovers over the preview, not ready to expand it. I set the phone down, stare at it, then pick it up again and slide to open.
Trouble
Wish I could have held you for the fireworks. Bet the view would have been better from my lap. When can I take you on a real date?
I type a response, then delete it. Type another, delete that too. Finally, I let myself say what I actually feel.
That sounds nice. When were you thinking?
I hit send and then bury the phone under a couch pillow.
Tomorrow, I will regret this. Or maybe I won’t.
For now, it’s enough to have made a choice, any choice, and to let the loneliness take one quiet step back into the shadows.
***
The next morning, my phone is dead and so am I, but Salem insists on using my ribcage as a launchpad at precisely 6:37 a.m. I roll off the couch and stagger to my charger, plugging it in. It vibrates almost instantly, the queue of texts stacking up.
First up is Nash. Of course it is.
I thumb it open and see:
Trouble
How about Saturday? I’ll pick you up for a fancy dinner. Deal?
I sit cross-legged on my bed, reading it three times.
What’s your definition of fancy?
He replies instantly, as if he’s been waiting all night for my counter.
Trouble
You, in a dress. Me, not in an old band tee. Restaurant with more than four items on the menu. Minimal risk of food poisoning.
That eliminates half the city, you know.
Trouble
I was thinking about that French place in Melrose. The one with the unpronounceable name and the weird chairs.
I type out the name as I remember it: Le Papillon Gris. Mina dragged me there for her birthday last year, and we spent the entire night pretending we understood the wine list. It’s tiny and candlelit, very intimate.
You want to take me out of town for our first real date?
Trouble
Unless we’re not keeping it lowkey anymore?
It makes me giggle, but we are absolutely still keeping it lowkey.
Saturday. 7:00. But I get to choose the music in your car.
Trouble
We’ll be on my bike, actually.
I’ve never been on a motorcycle.
Trouble
First time for everything, doll.
I set my phone down and let the quiet fill in around me.
Salem hops onto the bed, headbutting my elbow until I cave and scratch behind his ears.
“It’s just a date,” I say aloud, to him or maybe to myself. “Nothing more.”
He blinks slowly and settles beside me.
I pick up the phone again and stare at the last message.
Deal. See you Saturday, trouble.
***
Saturday evening, the city is painted in golden light, every tree rustling in the wind. I run my hands down the dress. It’s black, low-cut, not quite the silk slip dress from Nashville, but close. I debate heels, then opt for the boots, imagining the logistics of riding Nash’s motorcycle.
At 6:55, there’s a rumble in the parking lot that vibrates the bones of the building.
I look out and see Nash, helmet in hand, leaning against his bike.
The leather jacket, the dark jeans, the untamable hair.
All of it together makes me question why I ever dated a man whose idea of edge was eating ice cream without taking lactose intolerance medicine first.
He glances up and sees me at the window. I duck away, cheeks burning, but when I come out, he’s waiting for me, helmet outstretched.
“Damn,” he says, without irony or overkill. “You look…” He lets it hang, searching for a word and, for once, coming up empty.
“Don’t say ‘nice,’” I warn.
He grins. “Was thinking more like devastating. In the best way.”
I take the helmet, feeling its weight in my hand. “I’m nervous,” I admit.
“Just hold on to me. I promise not to go full tilt on the first date.” He helps me with the straps, his fingers grazing my jaw, gentle and methodical. When he’s sure it’s snug, he puts on his own helmet and swings a leg over, then pats the seat behind him. “Hop on, doll.”
The engine’s purr becomes a thrum beneath my thighs, and when I wrap my arms around his waist, it’s less out of fear and more because I want to be close to him.
The first turn nearly topples me, but Nash laughs, a low vibration through his back.
“I’ve got you. Just move with me and the bike,” he says, and after a few blocks, it’s almost natural.
We’re just out of the city limits when I realize how tightly I’m clutching him. He slows at every stop sign, checking on me with a quick turn of the head, but otherwise says nothing. The ride is fairly short, and when we pull up to Le Papillon Gris, my hands are still latched around his middle.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asks as he steadies the bike.
I unclasp myself, pretending my arms aren’t still slightly trembling.
“Not gonna lie. I was a little afraid I was going to pee myself the whole time.”
He pulls off his helmet, hair springing back into chaos.
“Since my seat isn’t wet, I’m assuming you didn’t.”
He says it so simply I can’t find a comeback, so I slide off the bike and pretend my knees aren’t rubber. Nash takes my hand as we cross the sidewalk. There’s a line outside the restaurant, but he steers us to the host with quiet confidence and gives his name.
The bistro is even smaller than I remember. It’s dim, intimate, every table close enough for the next party to overhear your entire conversation if you talk loud enough. The host seats us at a table in the far corner.
Menus arrive. Nash hardly looks at his, instead watching me peruse mine.
“You really like French food?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Not really. I just heard they had good wine and a killer chocolate mousse.”
“All the makings of a great dinner,” I smile, reassuring him.
When the server appears, Nash orders a bottle of something red, then defers to me for the food. “Ladies first. What are you having?”
I scan the menu and pick something safe: steak frites, medium rare, with a side salad. Nash follows suit, but adds escargot as a starter.
“Really?” I raise an eyebrow.
“What? I’m a man of culture.” He grins. “Besides, I want to see your face when you try one.”
The conversation is easy, almost dangerous in how quickly the difficulties of the day melt away. We talk about work, music, our dreams for the future. He listens, really listens, asking questions that make me feel seen. When the wine arrives, he pours for me first, and we clink our glasses.
The server returns and places the escargot in the middle of the table. Nash wastes no time in daring me to try it. I do, because pride, and the garlic butter nearly masks the fact that I am eating a garden pest.
“So?” he asks.
“Texture of a gummy bear, flavor of a garlic knot,” I declare. “Try one.”
He does, making a less-than-pleased face as he chews.
“I think you missed your calling as a food critic,” he coughs out. “Because that was spot on.”
I laugh, thinking about how much I enjoy spending time with him.
The main course is perfect. The wine flows, and with it, my guard lowers. I find myself touching his hand when I want to emphasize a point, laughing louder than I mean to, and flirting back when he compliments me.
When the check comes, Nash doesn’t look at the bill, just slides a card across and goes back to sipping his wine.
“So, what do you think?” he asks.
“Of the food, or the company?”
He pretends to ponder. “Both. But mostly the company.”
I tilt my head, letting the silence stretch. “The company was much better than the escargot, and the escargot was, honestly, not terrible.”
He smiles, but behind it is something softer, like maybe this is more important to him than he’s letting on.
“Good. I was hoping to impress you.”
I can’t help the stupid grin stretching across my face.
“You did.”
Nash stands, looking pleased with himself, and grabs my hand, leading me out of the restaurant. Outside, the air is cool. The lights of the bistro flicker behind us, gold against the gathering dark. I watch Nash as he fetches the helmets.
The wine from dinner has now fully settled in my bloodstream, making me unusually bold. He hands me the helmet, but I hold on to it, looking up at him.
“So,” I say, “have you ever had sex on your motorcycle?”
Nash blinks, caught off-guard, and then a flush spreads up from his neck.
“No,” he says, grinning. “Can’t say I’ve even tried.”
I shrug, coy. “A bike that looks this good should be christened properly, don’t ya think?”
He steps closer, lips parted in mischief. “Is that an offer, Attorney Anders?”
“I mean, if you’re up for it.” I break off, suddenly embarrassed.
Nash’s voice is velvet, just above a whisper. “I’m up for anything with you.”
Nash tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and for a second, his thumb lingers at my cheekbone.
“God, I really like you,” he says, and the words nearly knock the air out of me.
He puts on his helmet and mounts the bike, then offers his hand to me. I take it, straddling the seat behind him. This time, when I wrap my arms around his waist, I’m not afraid. I’m excited.
He takes us through the winding streets until we’re out near the old state park, the one that’s been abandoned since the city ran out of funds. There’s a parking lot half-swallowed by weeds, and he pulls in, headlights slicing through the dark.
He kills the engine, but keeps his hands on the bars for a moment.
“You sure about this?” he asks.
He yanks his helmet off, dropping it onto the grass with a thud. I fumble mine off, too, and the air is suddenly thick with the smell of leather, sweat, and whatever sweet aftershave Nash wears.
I slide forward, pressing myself flush against his back. “Very sure.”
He steps off the bike only to get back on facing me, and even in the moonlight I can see his pupils blown wide. He shifts, angling toward me on the seat, and our knees knock together. He slides his hand up my thigh, thumb stroking the inside until I forget how to breathe.
I kiss him, all hunger and need. He responds instantly, hands cupping my jaw, my waist, anywhere he can claim. I bury my face in his neck and bite gently, and he groans, grabbing a handful of my ass to pull me closer. I’m barely balanced on the seat, but it just makes me cling tighter.
I gasp when his hand moves under my dress, his palm warm on my bare skin, and I rock against him instinctively, desperate for more.
I break the kiss just long enough to say, “Tell me what to do.”
He inhales sharply, like he’s never wanted anything more.
Nash grins, hungry and wicked. He leans back against the gas tank, eyes on me as he unzips his pants and pulls himself out.
“Come here,” he says, gently pulling me onto his lap. “Move your panties to the side. Now grab the handlebars, slide that pretty pussy down my cock, and ride it.”
I do as I’m told, my hands clutching at the bars, knuckles whitening. The dress bunches at my hips, and Nash’s gaze is molten, drinking in every inch of skin I show him.
He guides me down, one hand at my hip, the other bracing himself behind. When he slides inside, I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. I rock forward, the friction exquisite, and the world tunnels to just the points of contact: my thighs around his, his hands on my body, him inside me.
Nash groans and tips his head back, exposing his throat.
“Fuck, Avery,” he rasps. “Fuck.”
I let myself fall into the rhythm, the slow grind of my hips, and it’s wild how good it feels.
“Don’t get shy on me now,” he says, his lips brushing my ear. “I want to hear you.”
“Nash, we’re—what if someone—” I start, suddenly breathless.
“Nobody’s coming out here. And if they do, let ‘em watch.”
The bike rocks beneath us.
“Yes,” I moan, shameless and needy. “God, Nash, yes!”
He slaps my ass, the sting making me clench harder around him.
“You feel—” he rasps, and I hear him grit his teeth. “God, you feel so fucking good,” and the words are so raw I almost lose it right there.
He slides a thumb up to my mouth, tracing my lip, then slipping inside. “Just like that, Avery,” he says, voice gone raw. “Fuck, you’re perfect. Take what you want, baby.”
I do. I move my hips, grinding down until every thought is erased, replaced by a singular, primal focus.
I brace myself on the bars and ride him harder, feeling the tremor in his thighs as he fights to keep control.
The obscene, slick sound of us fills the empty parking lot, and the rush of being so exposed is almost enough on its own.
I let myself go. The orgasm that hits me is all nerves and heat, a shockwave that leaves me thrashing in his lap, crying out. Nash is relentless, his mouth on my throat, my jaw, my shoulder.
He hisses through his teeth, every muscle in his body locked tight, until he buries himself deep and comes with a guttural, helpless grunt. I feel it, the pulse of him inside me, hot and greedy.
I collapse against his chest, shaking so hard I nearly lose my grip on the bike. Nash catches me, strong arms wrapping around my back, his hand splayed wide and possessive. His breath is ragged against my ear, and he just holds me there, not saying a word.
For a minute, neither of us moves. The only sounds are our ragged breathing and the distant whine of a train on the far side of the park.
I slide off of him back to my seat, and he tucks himself back into his jeans and zips them up.
He cups my face in both hands, thumbs gentle on my jaw.
“You have no idea what you do to me.” His voice is quiet, so unlike the usual Nash bravado.
I try to say something clever, but it catches in my throat. So instead, I just kiss him.
We put ourselves back together, helmets on, faces flushed.
He takes me home, the ride slower this time, his hand occasionally dropping from the handle to rest on my thigh. When we pull up to my building, he cuts the engine and helps me off the bike, steadying me with both hands.
I stand there, helmet in hand, knowing I don’t want this night to end.
“You wanna come inside?” I ask, my voice quiet.
He grins, but it’s soft at the edges. “I thought you’d never ask.”