Page 19 of Egg Me On

“I mean, you don’t really need to hear everything I say, do you?” I asked.

He gave a sharp nod, his lips still twitching, and climbed onto the bike, hauling me against him once again as I climbed on behind him. Did he like my random yammering?

Did he like knowing he made my cock hard?

“Fuck, I’m so confused,” I grumped into the helmet.

He reached back and rubbed my thigh, in a gesture that felt possessive. And intimate.

The engine roared to life beneath us, and we pulled out of the gas station behind the others, joining the caravan of motorcycles heading toward the mountains. I surrendered to the sensation of being wrapped around Cash, my front molded to his back, hands warm against his stomach. My fingers traced small, tentative patterns against his abs, testing boundaries, and I felt a shudder run through him that had nothing to do with the bike's vibration.

Chapter 7

Aiden

Dinner was a resoundingsuccess—I’d prepped big foil packets of sausages, veggies, and potatoes in advance, and cooking them over the campfire had been fun and simple, resulting in a savory mix of flavors that the crew had wolfed down. I’d paired it with Dutch oven cornbread soaked in honey butter, and they’d praised it like it was ambrosia from the gods.

And the group campground even had a shower. It was basic, but felt luxurious as I washed the dirt and grime of the day off my body, paying close attention to the parts of me Cash might want to touch.

Was that silly? Maybe he wasn’t into me at all. But something had shifted between us today. I was sure of it. Mostly. Kind of.

Okay, not really sure at all, but hopeful.

As night descended, wrapping the clearing in velvety darkness pierced only by the crackling fire that painted everyone's faces in dancing amber light, I started to question that more and more.

Everyone had been welcoming, cheerful, and fun. Everyone except Cash, who had been avoiding me. Or perhaps avoiding the entire group, staying on the fringes of the crowd, never quite engaging. He’d set up a tent for the two of us to share, and it was difficult for me to focus on anything but the thought of spending two nights in that tent with him. Still, I tried to enjoy the company of the rest of my new friends. Tried not to focus solely on Cash.

I wasn’t sure what he wanted,

A little away from the crowd, Cash sat on one of the picnic table benches, with one boot propped on a rock, his posture relaxed but alert, like a predator at rest. Firelight played across the angles of his face, catching in his eyes when he occasionally glanced my way. Each time our gazes connected, something electric shot through me, only to be broken when he'd look away, taking a measured sip of his beer.

"So there I was," Silas was saying, hands gesturing to emphasize his story, "bike dead in the middle of nowhere, no cell service, and this bear just wandering out of the trees like he owns the place."

"Bullshit," Marcus called out, laughter rippling through the group. "It was probably a large dog."

"I know a fucking bear when I see one," Silas defended, though his eyes crinkled with good humor. "Ask Cash. He had to come get me."

All eyes turned to Cash, who shrugged one powerful shoulder, then nodded, taking a sip of his beer.

“When he got there, I was up a tree.”

“Bro. What were you doing? Bears can climb trees!” Dylan gasped.

The group erupted in laughter, someone passing Silas another beer as consolation for his embarrassment. I laughed along, feeling oddly privileged to see this side of the FRMC crew—relaxed, playful, sharing stories that built the foundation of their friendship. For all their tattoos and motorcycles and tough exteriors, they were a family.

Dylan was on the log beside me, close enough that our shoulders brushed. As he leaned in and cracked another joke about Silas and the bear, his breath brushed across my cheek. But he wasn’t the one I wanted to be touching.

Across the fire, Cash's posture had changed, spine straightening, shoulders squaring. His eyes flickered to Dylan's knee where it nearly touched mine, then back to my face. I could see his jaw working, the muscles there tightening and releasing like he was grinding his teeth.

"The food truck must bring in all kinds of interesting people," Dylan said. "Ever had any celebrities come through?"

I launched into a story about the time a minor reality TV star had ordered every item on my menu, grateful for the easy topic. Dylan was attentive, laughing at all the right moments, occasionally offering a quip that kept the conversation flowing. He was charming, attractive in his own right, and under different circumstances, I might have been interested.

But every few seconds, my eyes would drift across the fire to Cash, who was now gripping his beer bottle so tightly I feared it might shatter in his hand. His knuckles had gone white, and though he seemed to be listening to Marcus's newest story, his eyes kept returning to Dylan and me with unmistakable intensity.

"So why a food truck?" Dylan asked, his shoulder now firmly pressed against mine as he leaned in to be heard over the raucous laughter erupting from another part of the circle. "Why not a regular restaurant?"

"Freedom," I answered honestly. "I didn’t like working under a chef at a big restaurant—I wanted to make my own recipes—and I like being able to move, to bring food to different places, different communities. Plus, the startup costs were way lower."

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