Page 43 of Iron Will

“You ever ridden on the back of a bike before?” When I shake my head no, he doesn’t look surprised. “I brought you a helmet. Here, put this on.”

I’m taken aback by how heavy the object he hands me is. Fortunately, once it’s on my head, I don’t notice the weight so much. I fumble with the chin strap a bit, and Rourke reaches up and fastens it for me, adjusting it so it fits snugly but not too tight.

“Okay.” He turns and straddles the bike, then lifts his chin to motion behind him. “Get on behind me, and put your feet on those pegs down there.” I do as he tells me, noting nervously that there’s no back rest behind me. What if I fall off backwards once the bike is moving?

The roar of the engine startles me and I jump in my seat, stifling a cry. In front of me, Rourke’s body is shaking with mirth. “No need to be nervous,” he calls out over the roar. “Put your arms around my waist.”

For one long second, I consider climbing off the bike and running back into the house.

The bike doesn’t move, and neither does Rourke. As though he knows to give me time.

Good God, Laney. Don’t be such a baby. You spend your entire life either at the hospital or in this house. Live a little. Ride a motorcycle. Go somewhere unexpected with a handsome biker. Stop thinking so much. Just for tonight.

I lean forward and wrap my arms around Rourke.

There’s a soft clunk as he puts the bike into gear. And then we start to move. Instinctively, my arms tighten around his waist. His abs are like steel. They barely yield as I squeeze like my life depends on it.

“Relax, babe,” he says. “I got you.”

For the first five minutes or so, I barely breathe, my muscles taut as rubber bands. It’s as though my body thinks that if I relax, I’ll die. But being that tense is exhausting, and eventually, my muscles start to surrender. Rourke weaves us in and out of traffic as we ride through town, and then we pass the city limits and head out into the countryside. Once we’re out on the open road, I start to notice the fluid movements of the bike a little more. It’s a little bit like being on a bicycle, except faster, of course. And more exciting.

As my muscles relax and I start to breathe more normally, I find myself almost enjoying the feel of the wind rushing by us, and the hypnotic thrum of the engine.

Not to mention the warmth of Rourke’s body against mine.

I turn my head and watch the trees and fields fly by. The muscles underneath his shirt flex as Rourke negotiates the twists and turns. So much power in the motorcycle underneath us. So much raw strength in the man whose life is currently in my hands.

It’s intoxicating.

I take a deep breath in, then exhale slowly, suddenly feeling more alive than I have in I don’t know how long. All of my senses are on alert. I’ve never been so aware of everything around me: every smell, every noise, every sight. The air filling my lungs. The man filling my thoughts.

Minutes later, the bike begins to slow. I hear and feel the gears as Rourke downshifts. Up ahead and to the left, there’s a low, long building with a sign I can’t read and a large parking lot out front. This must be where we’re going.

An unexpected knot of disappointment forms in my stomach that the ride is already over.

Rourke pulls into the lot stops the bike, and cuts the engine. He turns his head, which I take as the sign that I’m supposed to get off first. I let go of him and pull my leg over the seat, awkwardly. I fumble with getting the helmet off, and when I’ve finally pulled it over my head, I look up to see Rourke grinning at me.

“That didn’t take long.”

“What didn’t?”

He chuckles. “You were hanging onto me tighter than a boa constrictor when we started out. You loosened up pretty quick.”

“It was… fun,” I admit, letting myself smile back. “When it stopped being so terrifying.” I look at the building in front of us. “Where are we?”

“Shooter’s,” he says simply. “You ever heard of it?”

I shake my head. “Never.”

“Best burger you’ll ever have. Guaranteed.”

I laugh. “I guess that’s what I’m getting, then.”

“Damn straight you are.”

Inside, the atmosphere is raucous, with classic rock booming through the speakers and bartenders pouring beers as fast as they can. Waitresses weave through the crowd delivering plates of food and platters of drinks. Shouts of laughter rise and fall. Over to the side, the clack of pool tables beats a steady rhythm.

“Come on, let’s get something to drink,” he says. “What’ll you have?”

---