Page 8 of Parrish

Chapter Four

Reina Parrish

I still remember the first time Jack ever took me for a ride on his motorcycle. I was in a bad place in my life, still reeling from the fire I survived and grieving the man who perished in those flames—the man who would’ve been my husband. Ironically, that man was also Jack’s brother, Daniel.

I never allowed myself to wonder what life might’ve been like if Daniel survived and Jack never walked into Dee’s diner. Back then I couldn’t picture loving anyone other than Daniel and I certainly never expected to fall in love with his brother. They were complete opposites in every sense. Daniel was a Federal Agent and Jack the ultimate outlaw.

Yet the moment Jack walked into Dee’s diner, something inside me knew my life was truly just beginning. The years that had come before Jack Parrish were just a prelude to one of the greatest love stories ever written. In between chapters, I realized I never knew love until Jack was the one loving me. His love has been the greatest gift of my life and while the tragic end of our story may be approaching, we still have a few more pages to fill.

To fill with love.

To fill with hope.

To fill with all the things that have kept us together, pushing through the darkness, overcoming every obstacle that’s threatened to ruin us. We have survived death, bombs, hearing loss, a mad mind and a cold world. We’ll survive goodbye too, for what choice do we have?

Part of me wants to yell at him and tell him to forget the deal, to choose me and our story over everything and anything but that would be asking Jack to change the core of who he is, and I won’t do that. I fell in love with a flawed outlaw challenged by an illness he can’t control and that’s who I will die loving. I lean my chin on his shoulder and wrap my arms tightly around his middle, leaning into the curve as he turns into our driveway. We come to a complete stop and he drops his boots onto the concrete, balancing the bike between his thick thighs as he kills the rumbling engine.

He drops the kickstand and covers my hands with his.

“Home sweet home,” he murmurs.

I wonder if he realizes how powerful those three words are and that my home isn’t the brick house standing in front of us but the man I’m clinging to.

Pressing a kiss to my cheek, he slides my hands away from his chest and dismounts from the bike. I watch, just as I have so many times before, as he pulls his fingerless gloves from his hands and shoves them into his back pocket. Next, he removes his helmet and hangs it from the handlebars before turning to me and offering his hand. It’s a scene we’ve played hundreds of times and one I never cared to cherish until this very moment.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I place my hand in his and the callouses brushing against my palm are proof the years of riding have taken their toll on more than just his mind. Helping me off the bike, he removes my helmet and tucks it under his arm instead of hanging it next to his like he usually does.

“You never taught me how to ride,” I whisper hoarsely, lifting my eyes to his. It’s not something I ever wanted to do. In fact, it was more of a joke between us than it was ever a promise.

“Yeah, well we both know I’m a selfish fuck,” he mutters, pulling me into the crook of his arm. “I’m not sorry for it either,” he adds. “I don’t want you riding without me.”

Truth be told, I won’t ever ride again after today.

Not with him and certainly not by myself. I warmed up to the role of old lady, but I am far from a biker.

“My days of riding end with your days, Parrish,” I reply as we keep in stride with one another. Making our way up the stoop, neither of us pay any mind to the officers who tailed us to our home. Once we reach the door, he digs into his pocket for the keys. I stare at him, counting the lines on his face, committing them to my memory. He unlocks the door and pushes it open before turning to me.

“What?” I ask.

“Close your eyes,” he says.

“Jack—”

“Humor me, Sunshine.”

I don’t want to close my eyes because I don’t want to miss a single second, I have left with him, but I do as he asks. A second later he lifts me into his arms and I feel his lips gently graze mine.

“Now, open them and look at me,” he demands hoarsely.

Again, I do as he requests, wrapping my arms around his neck as I stare into his dark eyes.

“Never did carry you over the threshold,” he continues. “Seems a little overdue.”

This man.

Fractured and flawed.

I wished for this man—I prayed for him as a young girl. He may not have been cloaked in leather, and the horse he rode in on may not have been made of chrome, but nonetheless he’s still the prince in my fairytale.

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