Page 46 of Liar Byrd
He must hear my heartbeat as he halts just inches away, cradling my face with his warm, calloused hands. I stop breathing.
He leans in, bringing his face closer until only an inch separates his mouth from mine. “Clean my bike again, and Iwillfuck you on it.”
It doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like a promise. The kind that makes my belly tighten and my breath stick in my throat.
“I won’t do it again,” I swear.
That can’t be disappointment in his eyes, can it?
He releases me, and I abandon the bucket beside me and duck around him.
He circles my wrist and tugs, halting me.
His expression is a mix of annoyance, frustration, and something else I can’t read. “That was a thank you.Again.”
“Oh.”
Lip twitching, he shakes his head and lets me go.
I flee.
I’m nearly at the door when he calls out. “Next time you’re bored, come back here.”
I twist to face him.
He’s crouched beside his bike, busy checking it, and I hope I haven’t gotten water where I shouldn’t have. I was careful, but what do I know about bikes?
My gaze lingers on the bare olive skin on his lower back, exposed when he leans forward to examine his bike.
I’ve gotten so used to covering up that skin on display feels new. It didn’t use to.
Will I ever feel normal sunbathing on a beach in a bikini?
And what other normal experiences has Jeremiah made me feel are strange?
I bite my lip. “Why?”
“I’ll take you out for a ride. Figured you deserve something for taking such good care of my bike,” he says softly, and I blush in response, not sure where to look as I nod.
I did a good job.
Pleasure warms me inside and out. Appreciation was rare in the compound. Only Jeremiah was deserving of praise, so I learned to go without. But it feels good to know I can still do something right. That I’m making a difference to someone’s life.
I eye his bike and try to imagine how I’d feel with my arms wrapped around his waist, my cheek against his leather-cladback, and the wind whipping my hair from my face as we sped down an empty road. Would it feel like I was flying?
“No, thank you.”
But as I slip out, I’m tempted. So tempted, I peek back over my shoulder one last time, and get the shock of my life to find Makhi’s attention isn’t on the bike anymore.
It’s on me.
The next day, I’m venturing into the garden for a walk to escape dark thoughts when pulsing bass draws me into the open garage.
Makhi is scrubbing dirt off his bike. There’s a leather jacket tossed over a metal table and a black helmet beside it. I don’t know where he rides, but his bike always ends up so filthy.
He glances over his shoulder, snorts in amusement, and resumes cleaning. “I was afraid of leaving the bike to take my coat into the house. Had Nance bring out a bucket of water for me. How’d you know my bike was filthy?”
“Didn’t. I heard the music.”
