Page 14 of Road Rash

I moan. He drinks down the sound and for a moment I’m sure I’m about to get my way. Right up until he gently pushes me back a step, tearing my lips from his.

“Got your way last night. Not today. Your head ain’t ready, baby and I ain’t riskin’ your health for a fuck no matter how amazin’ that fuck has the potential to be.”

Every time he says fuck in that growling voice, I feel it in my sex clenching tight and I picture him there, moving inside me.

“Dane…” I beg because I’m not above begging to get what I want.

“No. Goin’ back to bed, but your clothes stay on.” Linking our fingers, he leads me back to the bedroom. When I sigh, he turns to me, brushing his fingers down my cheek. “We got the rest of our lives, baby. Now, I need you healthy. Please, give me this. I can’t lose you.”

I’ve never heard a man speak with such vulnerability. His feelings coat me like a second skin. “Okay. I won’t ask again.”

“Whoa—slow your roll, there, woman. You won’t ask again for now. Soon as your head is better, you won’t be able to walk for a week once I’m done with you. And that’ll be the first time.”

Right, because that doesn’t send desire straight to my core.

He fluffs the pillows against the headboard again before helping me down onto the bed. Do most men take care of their women this well or did I hit the lover jackpot? Well, partner jackpot. Dane’s more than a lover. He wants a life with me. The same life I’ve wanted with him for years.

I haven’t been in a relationship since high school. From the first day I met Dane as Old Man, I was smitten. The emails we’d send every few months to keep up with one another’s lives, only strengthened that feeling. Then, two weeks a year, we had joking and friendship, drinking games and dancing. Bitching about customers and the rising prices on a case of Jack or Jimmy.

“Gettin’ you breakfast,” he says.

“What’s Cath got on the menu today?”

“Hey… you forget I can cook?”

No. I didn’t forget. I laugh at his reaction. “Pancakes?” I ask.

“What else would I make for my girl?”

Swear to god if my head doesn’t heal fast, I won’t be responsible for my actions. After about twenty minutes the house begins to fill with the smell of pancakes and bacon frying. My mouth waters. My stomach grumbles. And when he finally brings me a tray full of breakfast goodies, I fall on that plate like a… like a… I squeeze my eyes shut again. Thinking too hard hurts my head.Flies on a carcass. Okay, so it’s a disgusting simile but at least I thought of it. That has to mean something. That my head is starting to heal?

He gets comfortable next to me on the bed again. I’m content to eat delicious, fluffy pancakes and drink coffee. Though, I feel bad—like I should be doing more.

We watch television together. Time passes, episode after episode of a program, not surprisingly, about bikers.

It suddenly occurs to me that Dane should be getting ready for work. “Don’t you need to shower and change?” I ask.

He stares at me like I’m speaking a foreign language or something.

I shrug, giving him big eyes. “Work—you own a bar and this is rally week. Ring any bells?”

“Jonesie, baby, I’m not going back to work with you injured.”

Hearing him call me baby again brings me a sense of calm. Proof that this is supposed to happen between us. Proof that we’d done this the right way, building up our friendship along with our need. I feel confident with the idea of moving forward in this relationship with him. Still, I can’t be the one to hold him back. He has a business to run.

“But this is your busiest time,” I protest. “You need to be there. That’s your bread and butter.”

“I’m prioritizing. No job is more important than taking care of you.”

The rush of gratefulness and longing for the man just about bowls me over. I can’t wait until I can begin to take care of him, either.

We’re about a third of the way into the next episode when his phone begins blowing up with texts and calls.

He stares down at the device, intensely scanning the words.

“You’re frowning,” I tell him something he has to be aware of because it’s his face. It’s as if my voice startles him; like he’d forgotten I’m in the room with him.

“There’s an emergency—at the bar.” Then he turns his attention back to the texts. “I don’t know what to do.”

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