Chapter 58 #2
“Maybe I am.”
He grins. “That’s hot.”
Lou appears between us. “She’s emotionally unavailable and expensive,” Lou says. “But hey, shoot your shot.”
The guy laughs and backs off.
“You’re impossible,” I tell Lou.
“I’m saving you for something better.”
The rapper’s voice is lower now, the words about loyalty and blood and never needing permission to take up space.
Lou leans close to my ear. “I’m melting and I need a smoke.”
“What?” I yell back.
He grabs my wrist and starts pulling me toward the edge of the alley. “SMOKE brEAK, BITCH!” he shouts.
We squeeze past someone arguing over twenty bucks, past a girl crying and laughing at the same time. The air cools as we approach the end of the alley.
Lou digs through his pocket for a cigarette. “We need to find you a distraction tonight,” he says casually.
“I am not interested.”
“You absolutely are. You need a rebound with tattoos and low emotional intelligence.”
I snort. “That narrows it down to about half the guys here.”
A low engine rumble from the street catches both my attention and Lou’s.
“Well,” he says slowly, eyes tracking toward the street. “Speaking of low emotional intelligence.”
At the mouth of the alley two motorcycles roll to a stop. The first rider pulls off his helmet immediately. Shaved head. Green eyes. He’s broad, but not too bulky. Confident without trying too hard.
He says something to someone near the curb and they laugh like they know him.
He’s hot, objectively.
Lou’s elbow digs into my ribs. “Tell me you don’t want him so I can proceed.”
“I…”
“You’re already undressing him. I can practically hear the zipper in your head. No judgment, he’s ten out of ten.”
“I have eyes.”
“I respect dibs.”
The second rider stays seated with his helmet still on.
Lou nudges me. “Mysterious one is more your type.”
“I don’t have a type.”
“Incorrect. You absolutely have a type.”
The shaved-head guy—the hot one—ambles toward the alley entrance. He has an easy grin on his face as he lights a cigarette.
The helmeted rider swings one leg off the bike in a smooth, unhurried motion.
Lou squints slightly.
“…Actually,” he says. “I take it back. That one might be a felony.”
“Lou.”
“I’m serious. Bald guy is fun trouble. He will buy you cheap tequila and maybe steal a street sign. Helmet guy looks like laws are suggestions. But he might tie you to his bed and have you thanking him for it.” He looks at me, “Bitch you’re considering it!”
“I’m not!” I protest.
The helmet rider finally pulls off his gloves, one finger at a time.
Lou leans in. “You’re literally drooling. There’s a puddle forming at your feet.”
“Stop it! I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
The helmeted rider finally turns his head toward us. The visor is a black mirror, and I know, I just know, he’s looking right at me.
“Go on,” Lou whispers, giving me a shove. “Worst case, you end up in a ditch, and I have a great story to tell. Best case, you don’t walk straight for a week.”
“Stop it!!!”
“Meeting someone is not a betrayal, Sisk. It’s called being alive. You have to move on.”
The shaved-head guy pushes off the wall, says something to his friend I can’t catch, and starts our way. His grin is all teeth and trouble.
Lou mutters, “Okay, decision time. Fun or fatal?”
“I’m not deciding anything.”
The shaved-head guy stops in front of us. With a quick flick of his wrist, he sends the cigarette flying. It lands in a nearby puddle with a faint, satisfying sizzle.
“Good crowd tonight,” he says, his eyes crawling all over me.
Lou answers first. “Depends on your definition of good.”
The guy smiles and his eyes find mine again. “You from around here?”
“Was,” I manage. “Just visiting.”
“Visiting?” He leans in a little, his voice drags lower. “How long do I have to convince you to stay forever?”
Lou glances past him, his eyes going wide. “…From the way your friend is coming in hot? I’d say about thirty seconds.”
I turn and he’s there. The helmeted rider, he’s closer now, and everything else fades into the background. His friend says something else to me but I miss it. I nod anyway, although my attention has already shifted.
The second rider stops, close enough for me to see the dark lines of a tattoo snaking under his collar. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t introduce himself, doesn’t even take off his helmet. He just tilts his head a little, like a question, and I’m ready to give him the answer.
Lou notices.
“Oh,” he murmurs.
The other guy notices too. He chuckles, backing away with his hands up. “Alright, alright. I know when I’m beat.” He winks at me. “He’s all yours.”
I don’t know why I do it. Is it the helmet? The quiet confidence? The fact that he hasn’t said a word? I don’t know, but I take one step forward.
I’m close enough to see my own distorted reflection in the black visor. The rider turns, and I follow.
Lou calls after me, “If you die, I’m stealing your boots!”
Shaved-head guy laughs. “She’s in good hands.”
The rider in front of me leads me to the motorcycle and stops.
“Are you going to say something?” I ask, my voice thinner than I’d like.
A beat of silence that stretches into eternity. He reaches up slowly, unstraps the helmet, and lifts it off.
The air leaves my lungs. His eyes lock on mine.
“Get on the bike, Sisk.”