Page 27 of Fight Or Flight

“You should be a poet.”

That’s one I’ve never heard before.

“I can’t rhyme for shit.”

She laughs softly, then points a finger to the bike.

“May I?”

Before I can comprehend her words, she walks toward the bike and slowly runs her hand over the body of it. Then she obliterates my whole fucking world by taking hold of the handlebars. It happens in slow motion, or at least it does in my head. She throws her leg over the seat and straddles the bike and I swear on everything Holy; I’ve never seen anything hotter.

I’m never going to be able to sleep again.

Every time I close my eyes, I’m going to picture her legs hugging the chrome masterpiece. I’m going to recall the way her hands looked so tiny wrapped around the handlebars and the way she bit her lip as she got used to the feel of her dad’s bike.

Friends.

Yeah. Fucking. Right.

Her eyes slide up to meet mine and a shy smile spreads across her lips.

“How ridiculous do I look?”

Ridiculous is not the right word.

“Don’t answer that,” she says with a laugh.

Don’t worry, I couldn’t if I tried.

Aside from my brain malfunctioning, I think I just swallowed my tongue.

“Do you ride?” she questions.

I shake my head.

Honestly, I’ve never had the desire. I can barely manage four wheels and a fucking gear shift, imagine trying to balance two wheels and a throttle. However, staring at Brooklyn, I’m suddenly considering it. Fuck my license. Anyone can drive a car, but not everyone can ride a Harley with a pretty little hurricane on the back. Maybe it’s time I ask Papadukes to teach me how to ride.

She sighs, dropping her hands from the handlebars, and in one swift move she dismounts like a fucking pro.

Like it’s in her blood.

That makes me smile.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I say, finally finding my voice. I guess I didn’t swallow my tongue after all. She yawns, and that’s my cue to wrap this up. Tomorrow will be another emotional day she needs to conquer.

“Come on,” I coax. “You look like you’re about to fall on your face.”

I go to turn and head for the door, but she calls my name. Glancing over my shoulder, my eyes meet hers.

“Thank you.”

Those two words are like a dagger to my chest. I don’t want her gratitude.

“Please, don’t thank me.”

I never thanked your dad.

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