Page 43 of Stone
She didn’t look convinced, and he picked up her hand, kissed it, then set it on his thigh. “I’m fine. Promise. Now, do you want to hear the plan?”
She cocked her head and nibbled her lower lip. “Um, truthfully? You kind of made me forget there was a plan, but now that you’ve reminded me, yeah, I’d like to know.”
He smiled, then eased onto the street and headed west. “We’re going to breakfast at a popular spot up on Skyline Boulevard. We’ll meet some friends there and do a swap.”
“They’ll take the truck and head somewhere away from Mystery Lake and we’ll head home in one of their cars?” she finished.
He nodded. “Only it won’t be a car. It will be a bike.”
He felt her eyes on him as he turned south toward Interstate 280.
“I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before,” she said after several blocks. He couldn’t get a read on her tone. He heard curiosity, but also something else.
“It’s safe,” he said. “I’m an excellent driver.”
She frowned. “I don’t doubt you are. Nothing you’ve done in the time I’ve known you makes me think you’re reckless. But you aren’t the only one on the road, and the majority of motorcycle accidents—some say up to 75 percent—are caused by other drivers. Will we have helmets?”
“Yes, of course. I don’t ride without one, and I sure as hell wouldn’t put you on a bike without one.”
“And what time will we be on the road?”
“It’s seven thirty now. By the time we get to the restaurant, eat, and do the swap, we’ll be on the road by ten. Why?”
“About 60 percent of motorcycle accidents happen between noon and 9:00 p.m., with the greatest percentage being between three and six.”
His lips twitched. He couldn’t help it. He did not discount her nerves, but the fact that she’d researched motorcycle safety was cute as fuck.
“We’ll be home by three,” he assured her. “What else did your stats say?”
She eyed him, no doubt looking for signs of mockery. He did think it a little overkill, but the more important fact was that she wouldn’t have done it if she didn’t care.
She sighed. “Most fatal accidents involve older drivers—not the young and stupid like most people think. But it’s only by a slim margin. You’re not young and stupid, but you don’t fall into the ‘older’ category yet either, as that is drivers over forty.”
“Not far off, though,” he said.
“Far enough. For now.” Her tone had him wondering if she’d lobby for him to stop riding when he turned forty. He didn’t even bother to question if they’d be together.
“What else?”
“Helmets make a huge difference, of course. Lane splitting is a frequent cause?—”
“I won’t do that,” he promised.
She nodded. “The other risk factors are mostly other cars. Left turns, lane changes, those sorts of things.”
“Once we’re out of the Bay Area, we’ll take back roads with fewer cars, and I’ll be cautious.” She nodded, but in a distracted way he didn’t like. “If it really bothers you, I can make other plans.”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “It makes me nervous. I won’t pretend it doesn’t, and it seems as if you should know that if you’re driving. But I trust you, even though I may hold on and close my eyes for a while. I’m a bit of a chicken.”
He smiled as he merged onto Interstate 280 heading west. “Hold on as tight as you need, and we can slow or take a break any time you want. And you’re not a chicken,” he added.
She shot him an indulgent look.
“You’re not,” he insisted. “No way would a chicken have pulled off what you did in the museum last weekend.”
She snorted. “I read too many mysteries and thrillers, and I know how that story ends. I didn’t want todieis all. There’s no bravery in that.”
“First,” he said, holding up a finger. “Is there really such a thing as reading too many mysteries or thrillers?”
