Page 22 of The Biker and the Gamer
Lowering the camera from my face, I meet her gaze, showing her I’m serious. “Get whatever you want, Kendra.”
Her lips part. They’re painted a deep red today.
She almost seems dazed for a minute before she blinks and clears her throat. “Well, in that case…”
As she moves, I lift the video camera and move it with her.
In addition to the five boots, she adds a studded leather jacket, a three-piece studded leather bracelet set, two leather chokers and a pair of fingerless leather gloves.
When she dumps it all on the cashier’s counter, I ask, “That’s all?”
Her eyes widen. “Seriously? I’ve been waiting the entire time for you to tell me to stop picking shit up.”
Lowering the camera, I cock my head at her. “That’s because you don’t know me.”
Again, her lips part and she’s momentarily dazed. “You’re right. I don’t.” She moves back a step as if to find her ground, her balance.
Something’s happening. Something that feels important. But I block it—whatever it is.
I want her. All of her. I want to make her mine. But I know her better now than I did two weeks ago: Kendra Tisdale can never be contained, owned, or tamed. She would wreck me. Ruin me. I’m sure of it.
For that reason, I’ve been ignoring the quickening pulses in her clavicle whenever I get too close to her. Ignore how she dazes out whenever I make eye contact. Ignore the riot in my chest. Ignore the itch in my hands to grab her face and kiss her breathless.
Does that make me a wuss? Maybe. But I’d rather have her as a friend than not at all. And “not at all” is exactly what would happen if we acted on our urges. I’d lose her
“Will that be cash or card?” the cashier asks, breaking through our stare-off.
I clear my throat and set the camera down. Get out my wallet and hand my card over.
Then, like the punk I am, I pick up the camera again and hide behind the lenses, effecting a protection barrier between us. “Lunch after this?”
~
We settle for a lunch spot halfway between her workplace and my loft. We make use of their back patio, enjoying the cool afternoon breeze and warm sun.
I’ve been hungry for too long, so I’m wolfing down my salmon salad for around ten minutes without conversation before she hits me with, “Your turn.”
I pause mid-chew and look up at her. “For?”
“What are you most passionate about?”
I finish chewing my food before replying, “Gaming, of course.”
“Why?” she asks around a French fry.
“Because it’s the only thing that makes me feel alive.”
“Were you one of those kids who sat in front of the TV playing video games instead of going out to make friends?”
“One hundred percent,” I admit. “I knew since I was six that I was going to design my own games.”
Her smile is mischievous. “I can just imagine little Alec in his mismatch of batman shirt, superman shorts, and cat woman shoes.”
That rips a laugh from my gut. “I’ll let you have that one.”
She munches on another French fry. “Who are you most passionate about?”
“Easy. My parents,” I answer. “Though they would never believe it what with how I dodge their calls.”
