Page 23 of Cognac Secrets

“Does a dirt bike count?” I asked.

He laughed.

“No.”

“Then no,” I said.

He stared at me for several heartbeats and cocked his head slightly before saying, “Change of plans. Come on.” He dragged me slightly by the hand to his bike. He picked up his helmet and eyed me for a second and said, “You’re gonna have to take down your hair.”

“Ooookay,” I drawled and excitement fizzed through my veins.

I took my flower out of my hair and put it through the button loop on my jean jacket before pulling my ponytail out. It felt good to let my hair down after having it up in such a severe style all day. I jumped slightly as he put his helmet on my head and buckled it under my chin while I put my Bobbie pins in my pocket and my hair elastic around my wrist.

He worked at tightening up the chin strap and put his hands on the helmet, wiggling it a bit and frowning slightly.

“What?” I asked with a laugh.

“Loose fit, no good. Going to have to fix that.”

“How?” I asked.

“New helmet in your size.”

“Oh, that seems like a lot, and what about you?” I asked when he took a step back.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said. “We’re not going super far. You like seafood?” he asked.

“Love it,” I said.

“I know just the place,” he said. “Get on, watch the pipes – they get hot. Hold on to me and lean with the bike not against it when we make turns.”

“I think I can handle that,” I said honestly.

“I know you can,” he said and got onto the front of the bike, pulling his keys off his belt loop. I got on behind him and settled, checking to make sure my feet were where he wanted them to be, and sat back while he switched the bike on and twisted the throttle to start her. I jumped at the loud noise out of reflex. When he revved it again and I didn’t jump that time, he seemed satisfied.

“Hang on,” he called, and I dutifully put my arms around his trim waist, realizing as my hands slid over the almost slick material of his summer weight polo that the stomach beneath the layers of cloth was tight and corded with muscle.

I went from moist to wet – I admit it. The vibration of the motorcycle beneath medefinitelywasn’t helping, either.

He worked the machine expertly, checked up the street, then the other direction, which I didn’t blame him. It was a busy two-way street but down here with all the tourists? I looked both ways on the one-way streets for a reason. People were dumb and I had trust issues. Could you blame me?

He took things slow, as was kind of required in Quarter traffic, working our way to the main drag leading up to Metairie and out into the city’s suburbs. I was curious as to where we were going. Nervous, for sure, but at the same time, I didn’t have any reasonnotto give him the benefit of the doubt. He’d honestly been nothing but kind and a gentleman so far.

I honestly liked to give people the benefit of the doubt until they gave me a reason not to. It was a strange way to live, always expecting the worst, knowing in your heart of hearts that it was the likeliest scenario, but buckling down and going against that grain is what I did until I was proven right, or pleasantly surprised. It didn’t always work for me, but it was the way I did things. Sad to say, more often than not, I wasn’t surprised, but I didn’t think that was any kind of knock on me, more just a testament to the world today and how people were.

We rolled up to a stoplight and waited our turn, and I called out, “You sure you won’t get pulled over or in trouble for this?”

What could I say? I was a worrier. I couldn’t help it. It went hand in hand with both being a good human and an overthinker.

“So what if I do?” he called back. “All they can do is fine me. Not like I have any warrants or whatever.” He shrugged. “It’s only money and a minor inconvenience. I know the risks.”

I was a little taken aback. I mean, I guess it was on him if he had that kind of money to burn. My only thought to that wasmust be nice…Still. I didn’t like the cops overly much. They made me nervous. I’d seen abuses of power the times I’d been forced to live on the street and I’d seen plenty of their apathy in The Quarter when the bars let out. I’d seen some of the mounted police actuallyurgetheir mounts to kick when rounding the crowds of peaceful partiers out of the streets at Mardi Gras. It was sad, and a reality that a few times when I’d had run-ins, I’d found out there were missing person reports out on me from my family.

Luckily, I was old enough, and the cop I was talking with actually had some empathy to my plight and had told me, I was over eighteen and an adult. If I didn’t want to talk to them, I didn’t have to and that she would be more than happy to report I was alive and well, and that I didn’t wish to be contacted.

She’d been one of the good ones. Had actually cared about her community and wanted to make a positive difference. Had told me she would much rather Iwantto call the police in an emergency than try to avoid them because I was afraid that they’d make me talk to my parents or brothers.

She’d been shot and killed in the line of duty two years ago. I’d remembered her name. Had kept it in my back pocket when it came to any interactions with police who tried to push me to put myself in contact with my family. After she’d died, I’d kind of gone back to avoiding the cops and being more nervous than I’d needed to be around them.

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