7 - Lane
Lane
It was my first time being on the back of some dude’s bike. Not that I’d ever been at the front either, come to think of it. But here I was, tearing down the streets of Chicago on four hundred pounds of matte-black Italian steel and loving it.
The experience was a blur of sensation. While my clothing mostly blocked the frigid wind from my body, there was still a chill on the outer layer of my leggings…a sharp contrast to the warmth of Dax’s solid body between my thighs.
The helmet muffled the sound of the roaring engine to a low rumble that I could feel along every nerve-ending.
Oil-slicked street puddles collected the colorful reflections while the overcast sky cast an eerie purple-grey twilight over the rest of Logan Square.
It was the same type of satisfaction I felt while waiting for a verdict on a particularly gritty case, and the resulting adrenaline rush that coursed through my veins was powerful enough to temporarily block out all thoughts of my mother.
It was difficult to focus on anything else when you were trying not to fly off a motorbike.
Dax, the sadistic bastard, would occasionally rev the engine in warning and speed up in a way that had me cling to him as tightly as possible, just for him to enter a smooth turn with a lean angle progressive enough to tear a yelp from my throat.
Being caught on the knife-edge of danger if I so much as loosened my grip sent goosebumps skidding right across every inch of my skin, even beneath all the heavy layers.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up and blood pounded in my ears as my heart threatened to burst from my chest.
It was freaking awesome.
After what must’ve been close to forty minutes, the bike began to bounce hard as the tires transitioned from cracked city asphalt to a dirt approach choked with glass and wild chicory.
Dax skillfully navigated us around deep, water-filled potholes and steered past a perimeter of crumbling concrete barriers sprayed with faded graffiti.
There was an abandoned old security shack up ahead, its windows long shattered into glittering piles on the gravel. The bike rolled beneath the shadow of a massive, rusted overhead gantry crane that marked what I finally concluded was an old iron yard.
As we slowed to a stop, the engine’s roar dropped to a deep, mechanical rattle, eventually overtaken by the crunch of tires on gravel. Then it cut out, leaving only the ticking sound of hot exhaust metal cooling in the dead silence.
For the first few seconds, neither of us moved.
My chest finally hollowed out as my pulse stopped hammering and the residual rush receded to just a tingling feeling in my fingertips.
It was only when I heard and felt his muffled cough that I realized I was still squeezing Dax’s torso tightly enough to cut off his breathing.
I quickly let go, and we dismounted.
We pulled off our helmets and I shook my head, running my fingers through my hair to try and mitigate whatever damage had been done. But very quickly, I was taken in by the atmosphere of the iron yard around us.
There were rows of massive, corrugated iron warehouses weeping rust stains down their corrugated walls.
Skeletal, rusted cranes loomed overhead like prehistoric beasts against the dim skyline and before us lay a clear, quiet expanse of the black, glassy Chicago River cutting through the industrial gloom.
There was an odd peace among all that gloom, a strange comforting feeling and I instantly understood why Dax might’ve acquainted himself with this place. The two of us leaned against the bike, watching the stark and motionless water with a shared fascination.
I knew that Dax wasn’t one for words, at least not when they weren’t dripping with either disdain or charged with subtext. And me, well, I didn’t even know what to say or where to begin.
I knew that this was his way of trying to get me to clear my head, that much was obvious and he’d actually accomplished that goal. Just like Bear did when he forced me to help stack those sandbags. But now, in the empty quiet, I wasn’t sure how to proceed.
I stole a glance at Dax, whose eyes were still fixed on the water.
With the diffuse lighting washing over his side profile, deep shadows carved into his heavy brow and prominent jawline.
The otherwise smooth and sharp line of his nose was interrupted by a sudden, rugged break in the bridge that I’d never been close enough to notice before—the tell-tale mark of a man who spent too many weekends in places he shouldn’t.
A tiny, faint scar notched his right eyebrow, and another nicked his cheekbone just below his dark, almost black eyes.
A shiver ran down my spine. He had so much of his history written on his face without so much as uttering a word. I had no such signifiers.
Good girl Lane.
Ambitious Lane.
Balls of steel Lane.
No one except Nance had ever been able to see anything beyond those monikers, and even though I wore them proudly like armor, they grew heavy over time. They felt heavy now.
“It’s my mom,” I blurted out, surprising both of us as Dax’s head turned ever so slightly to look at me.
I bit my lip hard, realizing that my mouth had moved before my brain had the chance to stop it.
But I was also already feeling just a bit lighter, as though expelling those words had turned open a pressure valve and I was just now allowing myself to breathe.
I took an actual deep breath this time, prepared myself for the follow-up.
“She never really approved of me. It didn’t matter what I did or what I accomplished, it was never good enough for her.
Me choosing public defense was the last straw.
She called it a downplay of my talent; I called it white-collar boot-licking.
” My hands clenched together behind my back, then relaxed.
“And now she’s trying to get this house taken from me too. ”
“How could she possibly do that?” Dax asked quietly.
“It was left to me by my late uncle,” I explained. “She always thought that was bullshit and has been trying to contest his will. I think she believes that if I have no other choice but to go back home, she can try and shape me into the woman she wishes I was. Tough shit, I guess.”
Dax didn’t respond immediately, letting my words soak the air.
I was just about to make a joke to try and break the silence when he finally spoke. “I know a thing or two about moms who don’t give a shit about you.”
My head whipped to face him. His gaze was still fixed on the view ahead, but there was a break in the hardness of his features.
A tiny crack of vulnerability that I found comforting on the heels of my own confession.
I wasn’t the only one with armor, it seemed but that wasn’t something I ever expected from Dax Miller.
Not with his solid brick wall of a body, or his cliche motorbike or his snark.
Instead of making him feel awkward, I turned to look at the river again.
The cool wind nipped at my face and neck and I wrapped my arms around myself. This time, when I shivered it was genuinely because of the cold. Dax shrugged out of his leather jacket and draped it over my shoulders, tucking the collar snugly under my neck.
Well, someone was certainly feeling like changing up the script.
“Careful,” I warned him, finding my voice again. He looked at me with a questioning expression. “This might come off as a romantic gesture and ruin your street cred. Might need to catch another blue eye to remedy that.”
He blinked once at me, registering what I just said before cracking up laughing.
Now it was my turn to stare. For the first time since we’d met, Dax looked genuinely carefree, his head tilted back as he laughed and the sound of it—deep, smooth and genuine—wrapped me in warmth that surpassed the jacket.
Just when I thought I couldn’t be more surprised.
“Don’t worry. I have plenty more where that came from, so I think my rep will be fine,” he said, nudging me softly with his elbow.
I snorted. “I’m sure you do, Miller. I’m sure you do.”
The air around us changed. It was as though Dax’s laugh had managed to break down whatever remaining awkwardness was wedged between us until there was nothing but an unexpected contentment. An understanding.
Just as I wondered if he was going to share any more of his own story with me, that newly cultivated peace was suddenly broken.
“Yo, Miller!”
Both Dax and I turned around sharply to see two men stalking toward us.
They looked menacingly rough, wearing cheap, tactical clothing and jagged, uneven stubble.
As they came even closer I noticed that one of them had split knuckles, and a fading throat tattoo disappearing down the front of his dirty collar.
He was the muscle, I assumed. My theory was proven correct when the other guy was the first to speak, his cold and unblinking eyes shifting as he watched us.
I felt Dax’s body tense beside mine, shifting closer and then slightly in front of me. All previous warmth was gone, replaced by an icy focus that chilled me to the bone. I was used to seeing the asshole version of Dax smirking and scowling depending on the context.
But this? I’d never seen this look on his face before.
“Didn’t think we’d find you here, Miller,” the man repeated his name, seemingly intentionally before spitting onto the ground.
“I think you’re mistaking me for someone else,” Dax said, voice low and steady and lethal.
The first guy laughed, an ugly sound. “Oh no, I think we’ve definitely got the right guy. Your record’s not exactly forgettable. We didn’t know you were on this side of the city. Big change, no?”
“I think you should leave,” Dax said.