Page 8 of Bottle Rocket
“You know what this means, don’t you?” Dean asked. Leo rolled his eyes. He recognized where this was leading. “You owe me a performance. You’ve been hiding your light under a bushel, and I, for one, will not stand for it. Did you write your own music? Oh, who am I kidding? Of course you did.”
“Lots of metaphors,” Rosie said matter-of-factly.
“What?” Dean said, a maniacal light in his eyes. He was enjoying this too much.
“His songs were all metaphors. My favorite was this one about clouds on the tip of a mountaintop. It was also somehow about sex. Maybe breasts? Do you remember it, Leo?”
Leo shook his head and laughed helplessly.
“Oh my God, can we be best friends?” Dean said to her.
“Sure.” She shrugged, cool and unbothered, but in an overtly playful way as if best friendship was just her due.
He saw that Dean was taken by her, that he was sizing her up and trying to figure out exactly how she fit in Leo’s past, and if she could fit into his present.
“I have pictures of him too,” she said. “From back then. He had this church-boy haircut. He looked so innocent, but he wasso bad.” She shot Leo one of her rare smiles. “I liked it.”
“Goddamn, I’ve missed you,” Leo said. The words escaped before he could swallow them back, but fuck.
“And on that note, I’m gonna go,” Dean said. “Text me later, Whitt.”
Dean left them, and awkwardness followed.
“He calls you Whitt,” she said quietly.
“Most people do. I’m known by my last name professionally.”
She scrunched her nose up in the cutest way. “I have a lot of questions about that, but they can wait. Should I call you Whitt?”
“No. I like that you call me Leo. It feels …”
“Nostalgic?”
“Yeah. But in a good way.”
“Okay, then. Leo it is.”
“Speaking of nostalgia, you know what I would kill for?” he asked.
“What?”
“A snow cone.”
A trace of confusion zipped through her eyes. Did she expect something different? Maybe she thought he’d suggest skinny-dipping or getting trashed by the river or drag racing, but he wasn’t that lost kid any longer. Snow cones were more his speed at ten in the morning. Though skinny-dipping—he could have gone for that. Maybe after lunch.
“Sounds good,” she said.
They walked to the parking lot, and he stopped by his motorcycle—a new Triumph Bonneville Speed Twin.
She took a step back. “You expect me to get on that thing?”
He actually didn’t. He didn’t have protective gear for her legs, and she was in shorts, but he took a second to tease her. “Come on, Rosie. Where’s the wild child I remember? I have an extra helmet.”
Her tinkling laugh drifted over him, sending a cascade of prickles down his spine. She leaned closer and whispered, “I think not. I do not like being a passive passenger. Plus, you were the wild child, Leo.” Her voice was teasing but also authoritative in a way that slipped under his skin. The kinky part of him perked up as if it had been prodded awake.
“You want the keys? I don’t mind giving up control. Handing over the reins,” he whispered back. He was not talking about his bike anymore, sending out some insinuation to see if she’d bite.
Rosie frowned, a sweet, confused expression on her face. “I don’t have my motorcycle license. Why don’t we meet there?”
