Page 27 of Crow's Haven
The bike comes to an abrupt stop at an intersection and Crow glances back at me. “Try not to distract me,” Crow tosses over his shoulder after a beat. “I need both hands on the throttle.”
“Sorry,” I tell him, crying on the inside. “I didn’t mean to do that. I just got lost in thought.”
He flashes me a quick grin. “Darlin’ I ain’t complainin’ about your hands on me, just not when I’m ridin’.”
“Got it,” I tell him, my cheeks burning red. I glancing down at his boys, but I don’t think they can hear what we’re saying.
The heat in his eyes tells me he likes my touch more than he thinks he should, so I don’t feel too bad about getting handsy. Crow gets in his share of flirting when he thinks the boys aren’t paying attention.
Chase interrupts with a dramatic yell from the sidecar. “I saw a deer! Or maybe a log! It was fast!”
“That was a log,” Scout corrects him. “Deer have legs, dummy.”
Crow gently rebukes Scout, “Don’t call your brother names, Scout. You know better than that.”
“Respect, right?”
His dad just nods but before he can say anything, Chase cuts into the conversation again.
“Logs have legs if you believe hard enough!” His tone is grumbly, and he folds his arms over his chest. Only the harness is in the way, making him look more cartoonish than serious.
Scout snorts, and I can practically feel the eye roll he’s making behind his visor.
Crow revs up the engine and we take off again. The road straightens, and we coast along at an easy speed, wind tugging at my jacket.
There’s a natural closeness between us now. Comfortable, but still careful. We haven’t crossed that line. Not yet. But I can feel us edging towards it, bit by bit. It’s telling by the way our glances hold just a beat too long. The warmth in his voice when he says my name. The way I catch myself taking notice of how gorgeous his bare feet are when he pads around the house in the morning and how I’ve memorized all his tattoos.
At least the ones I can see…
***
The clubhouse comes into view around the next bend. Even though it’s really early, the lot is already dotted with bikes, sunlight gleaming off chrome. A few trucks and cars are parked along the far edge of the parking lot. There’s movement near the garage, someone in a cutoff flannel leaning over an open hood, but I can’t make out who.
The boys erupt in cheers as Crow slows the bike and pulls into the back lot.
“Clubhouse!” Chase yells, punching the air. “We made it!”
“I get to open the gate!” Scout announces, even though the gate is clearly already open. They’re just pretending, like usual.
Crow cuts the engine, and the sudden quiet enables me to hear the birds chirping in the trees and the boys’ voices more clearly. I swing my leg off slowly, taking off my helmet as I look around. My anxiety climbs up again, even though I’ve been here before. It might be a family friendly place, but the clubhouse still feels like a private club I’m not entirely sure I’ve earned the right to enter. I’m not patched, claimed as Crow’s old lady, or anything, really. I’m just a tagalong.
But Crow is already climbing off the bike and turning towards me, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder for a moment before he stoops down to unbuckle the boys.
The back patio of the clubhouse is bathed in sunshine. It’s the bright, warm space where the boys normally play while Crow trains the prospects. There is a fire pit off the side, surrounded by stone seating. The boys have claimed the whole space as their personal kingdom, turning every bench, rock, and stick into part of some imaginary battlefield.
Chase barrels around the corner with a plastic dinosaur in one hand and a stick-turned-sword in the other. “The lava’s coming! Get to higher ground!”
Scout leaps dramatically onto a bench. “Too late! You’re melting!”
I watch him teeter for a moment before he gets his footing and jumps forward to catch him. It proves to be unnecessary, because he flings his arms out wide, his casted arm flailing, to regain his balance. I want to tell him to be careful, but I don’t. This is the way they play. I’m not going to nag them incessantly.
They jump back down and roll in the grass like puppies, giggling. I smile to myself, seeing them like this—sweet. They could make a game out of anything.
I sit on a shaded bench at the far end, legs tucked up beneath me, Chase’s hoodie bunched in my lap where he tossed it earlier.
I almost can’t take my eyes off Crow. He’s in the clearing just beyond the patio, working with two of the prospects.
He’s sweating in the sun, black T-shirt clinging to his back in a way that makes my mouth go a little dry. Then, without a word, he peels it off and tosses it onto the railing.
