Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Luna
My ankle throbs so bad. And my right foot is this weird combination of pins and needles and numbness. I won’t be dancing the disco hustle for the next couple of days, that’s for sure.
I’m already wrapping my arms around the man’s neck as I ask for his name. My body shivers as my fingers lace through his long hair.
I’ve never been much of a smooth talker. But it’s worse now because I’m out of practice. Seven years with one boyfriend is to blame.
I’m amazed he doesn’t get offended at the nonsense I’m spouting.
The way I’m feeling reminds me of a party I went to in college.
I took one sip of the homemade punch and the next thing I knew, my equilibrium was all over the place.
I spoke too fast, all my natural shyness evaporated, and I believed I could fly if I tried.
But it felt euphoric at the same time, as if I were wading underwater.
The punch had been spiked with a whole bunch of illicit things, but I have no idea what is spiking me right now.
I’m not dizzy from the way he hoists me off the ground and into his arms so quickly. The best way I can describe it is feeling exhilarated while being off-balance.
“I’m Dante.”
The man’s deep voice rumbles as his long strides eat up the distance from the forest to the road. He checks to see Muohta is running next to him and then addresses the dog. “Go home, Mu. We’ll see you there.”
He must have felt the spasm of fear that rippled through my body. I’m not ready for Muohta to leave me alone with the stranger just yet.
One thick black eyebrow lifts up as the flicker of a smirk breaks through his harsh features.
“I don’t think it’s wise for us to ride with the dog running circles around the wheels, do you?”
I’ve never been on a motorcycle before. I’m an artist. A college grad. I’ve never seen one of these machines up close.
He’s waiting for my answer.
“Um… yes?” It comes out sounding hesitant. Am I being rude again? “I’m Luna Blackwood, by the way. How do you know Muohta?”
For a moment, my world seems to turn upside down as he scissor-jumps smoothly over Ben Magoo’s three-feet-high boundary fence. His heavy boots crunch on gravel as we reach the verge of the road.
“He’s Tempest’s dog.”
He says it as though that’s meant to be all the explanation I need.
“You knew Tempest?”
He freezes, but then goes back to placing me gently on the passenger seat of his bike. The machine is black with flashes of chrome, a bit like Dante’s leather jacket.
“Knew?”
“I’m sorry. I thought you were local because you know Mu. Tempest is…”
It’s so hard to guess what age this man is. Especially at night. His hair is a wild, tangled mess, and he’s got beard scruff covering half his face. He looks rugged and rough; not at all like the kind of person my aunt would hang out with.
Were Dante and Tempest a couple long ago? And there I go just blurting it out.
He says the word before I can. “Dead.”
It’s not a question. I feel bad for him. I think they were friends. Maybe even lovers.
His stillness transmits the feeling of loss to me.
“I’m her niece.” Damn it. How would he find that information comforting? I keep messing up each time I try holding a normal conversation with this man.
Stifling the gasp that rises to my throat, I let him run his hands down my right leg to position my boot on the foot stand. He must know how numb my foot feels.
“Do the same with your left foot. And then scooch your butt around until you’re more comfortable. Everyone’s got their own comfort zone when it comes to positioning on a bike.”
I try to do what he says, but my ankle is too sore for me to concentrate. The pins and needles are agony as the blood begins to flow again.
Dante straddles the bike in a business-like fashion; my head jolts forward and then my whole torso lurches backward as he kicks the stand away. I make a little yelping sound, which the man politely ignores.
Muohta has run ahead, leaving me to stare at the man’s leather-clad back. The smell of leather and musty cotton intensifies—I haven’t been this close to a man since Giulio split.
He doesn’t even offer me the helmet hanging from the back of the bike as he settles his—dare I say it—tight, muscular butt into the rider’s seat. I got a glimpse of his lower physique after he set me down, and it’s mighty impressive.
His leather gloved fingers grip the handles with an easy grace. It’s not how I imagined riding a bike at all. There is no hunching over. Straight-backed with bent knees elevated slightly above waist height. Kinda comfortable even, if I say so myself.
“You can hold on by grabbing me at the hips if you want. Or hang tight to the sides of the seat. Grab the back of my belt if you get dizzy.”
“Sides of the seat is fine, thanks.” Fumbling, I find the metal handles.
Talking to me over his shoulder, Dante brings me up to speed with bike passenger etiquette. “If you want to move forward and grab hold of me, it’s best if you edge your ass to the back of the seat and turn your head sideways—then you won’t accidentally headbutt me.”
I have to shout over the noise of the engine as he presses the ignition and does something with the handles and pedals.
“Headbutt?”
The word is drowned out by the revving engine. Dante has one last piece of advice.
“Lean a little bit into the corners with your body and tilt your head.”
We accelerate forward with such force my neck feels like a wet noodle as it sways backwards. Immediately everything he just told me goes out of my mind.
That’s because when Dante slows down to take the corner around Ben Magoo’s land, my noodle neck snaps my head forward. And I headbutt him.
It’s not a full-on headbutt. He’s too tall for that. I bang him just below the spot between his shoulder blades.
“Ouch!” It feels like a slap as my forehead smacks the thick leather.
So many things are happening all at once.
I have to brace my body against his torso because the wind is icy.
But I also have to lean at a weird angle whenever there’s a corner.
Actually, my logic begs me not to lean as we go around a corner.
It feels ungodly to go with the flow like that instead of fighting against the gravitational pull.
I’m not aware of it, but my hands grab hold of his belt as I hang on for dear life. He should really zip up his jacket. The man’s skin is ice cold as my thumbs hook over the waistband of his jeans.
I am officially sitting and spooning with a man I only just met.
And just when I think I’m getting the hang of this motorbiking thing, Dante suddenly swings the machine to the verge of the road before swerving into Tempest’s driveway with sleek skillfulness.
I yowl like a cat as the revs roar and the exhaust sputters. “Oh my God! For the love of all that’s holy—!” My heart’s in my mouth as the momentum propels us up the incline.
The steep entrance is hard enough for me to drive in my hatchback, and this man is doing it on a motorbike. If I hadn’t been holding onto him so hard, I swear I would have fallen backwards and tumbled off.
I’m seething mad! The most irritating part is that I can’t storm off in a huff because of my ankle.
I’ll be damned if I wait patiently for him to carry me inside. Releasing my grip on his waistband, I flex my stiff fingers to get the blood flowing. I’ll crawl up the stairs if I have to. I don’t want his help.
My face starts to prickle as the heat flows back to my cheeks.
“Couldn’t you tell that I was petrified?! Or are you some kind of sadist?” I know I’m scolding, but I need to vent. His riding is crazy dangerous!
I hope he can tell how pissed I am when he looks at me. That’s the problem with having pale eyebrows; no one can tell if you’re frowning in the dark.
The way he eases himself off the seat tells me he’s done this a million times before. He gives me a calculating look as he inspects me.
“No, you weren’t.” I must look confused, because he explains. “You weren’t petrified with fright on the bike, Luna. I could tell.”
I open my mouth to contradict him, but he holds up his hand.
“The fear gave you a buzz. That’s why you’re angry now instead of weeping. You’re upset—because you liked it.”
Muohta trots around the corner, yapping and purring when he sees us. Ignoring me, he goes to lick the man’s hand.
What I just went through finally catches up to me.
I was trapped in a snare like a small, furry prey animal.
I recently moved to a new house, a new town.
And now I’m being forced to recognize that a tiny part of me might like sitting on the back of a motorcycle with my arms wrapped tightly around its rider.
“Go be a clairvoyant on someone else’s time, Dante! You wouldn’t know fear if it kicked you in the groin.”
He seems amused as he helps me climb off the bike. “And why is that?”
The moment my feet touch ground, I am back to my sassy self.
“Fear is a very healthy reaction. So is anger. You could do with a lot more of both if you want to avoid accidents.”
But he’s right. I feel far more excited than afraid. Only twenty minutes ago, I was sniveling in the middle of a forest with my ankle in a vice. Now, I’m back home.
Against all odds, this man rescued me. I suppose I must be grateful for that.
Begrudgingly, I accept the helping hand he holds out to me, but the minute I reach the door, I hop away from him.
“Thank you. Have a good evening.”
A flash of white as he gives me a quick smile. It’s almost as if he can read my mind.
I don’t want to open the door while he is standing next to me. I don’t want to invite him inside.
Cocky and confident, Dante stretches out his arm and twists the door handle open.
“You left it unlocked, right? Tempest used to leave it unlocked as well.”
Fuming, I nod my head. Better get this over with. He brought me this far. It’s not likely he would have brought me home if he wanted to murder me.
“I won’t come in without an invite, though.”
The question comes out of me like a sigh. “Do you want to come in?”
He nods. “That would be the polite thing, don’t you agree? But I’m still waiting for that invite.”
The corner of his mouth curves up. He waits. This only elicits another long sigh from me. “Fine. Would you like to come inside my house, Dante?”
Pushing the door open with his shoulder, Dante shoots a wry reply at me and then moves to turn on the light. “Thanks, sweetheart. Don’t mind if I do.”
I find his brisk manners inexplicably charming. He moves too quickly for me to be able to inspect his face closely under the porch light.
Accepting my fate, I let him lift me over the threshold and carry me to the couch. He makes sure to lay me down across the seat cushions so I can rest my ankle on the couch arm.
“There’s really no need to—”
He’s already in the kitchen. I hear can-opening noises. Oh, darn. I forgot to feed poor Muohta—the dog who saved my life. Then I hear the faucet go on, closely followed by dog lapping sounds. Of course, I forgot to put out a bowl of water for him, too.
The stank of canned fish fills the room as Muohta gobbles his supper. Dante shouts. “You want a beer? Or some tea? Soup?”
The man must be a mind reader. “Soup, please. Thank you.”
More can-opening noises and then the click of the gas stovetop as it ignites. Dante comes back into the living room with a glass of water and hands it to me.
“Do you know where Tempest kept her aspirin?” he asks me.
Okay, so maybe they weren’t lovers then.
Draining the glass, I put it on the rug next to the couch. “I brought a first aid kit with me. It’s in the car.”
Lacing his fingers together, Dante bends his hands with the palms facing outwards to stretch them. The man must be flexible as hell, because there are no joints clicking when he does this.
Making himself at home, he pulls a high-backed armchair closer before sitting down.
This allows me to get my first full uninterrupted view of the man’s face and hands now that he’s removed the leather gloves.
The barrage of information I’m getting is contradictory.
He is so pale; those parts of his face that aren’t covered by hair look washed out from lack of sun. I’m a redhead, so I know everything there is to know about unpigmented skin. But he’s not sick or addicted. His body is far too well-developed for that to be a possibility.
Maybe he just seems pale because of the contrast between his hair and skin?
Under the artificial light in the living room, Dante has that matte black hair color that suggests either artificial dye or foreign ancestry.
It hangs down the sides of his face in a thick curtain, obscuring his forehead and even the outer corners of his eyes.
Those eyes must be sensitive to light. The pupils are tiny black pin pricks amidst a sea of deep blue.
They are the kind of eyes that make a woman want to throw herself into their ocean.
A hint of scimitar-shaped cheekbones rise on either side of his high-bridged nose. His nostrils flare as he inhales and sighs.
“Let’s get that boot off, shall we?” He stands in one fluid motion. There is no gripping the chair arms to leverage himself up. Two strides and he’s at my feet.
My expectations of a grungy, dirty biker are dashed as I look down at the long, elegant fingers touching my boot.
“May I?” he says, pointing to my foot.
Nodding my head and clenching my teeth, I brace myself for pain.