Page 18 of Won't Let Go
“Whatever you say, bestie,” Josh sings as he finishes securing his helmet and puts on his sunglasses. He takes my purse and tucks it in his saddlebag before swinging his leg over his bike. “Come on.” He offers me his hand, and much to my dismay, I fumble and die a little inside as I climb on behind him. My breasts smash against his broad, leather-clad back, and every inch from there down sticks like Velcro as he helps situate my black-and-white checkered Vans on the pegs.
“You good?” He pats the side of my thigh.
“Yup. Fine,” I grumble, not at all fine. I hate how exposed I am. My black dress is basically pooled around my waist. I tuck it as tight as I can underneath me, but what good will that do once we’re rolling? In case you didn’t know, I love dresses. Pinup style is my favorite. They’re long enough and comfortable enough to wear when I’m hunched over a body, jabbing ink into skin every day. Plus, they flare enough that you can’t see my panty outline through the fabric. They also hide all my bumps and cover a decent portion of the cellulite on my thighs.
Yes, I’m talking about my love of dresses, so I don’t end up in a panic attack.
Have I mentioned how much I don’t like riding bitch?
Josh wraps my arms tightly around his ridiculously muscular middle before firing the bike to life. It rumbles under my ass and into parts of me that are…dormant. In seconds, we’re backing out of the parking space and riding on two wheels. Air flaps my black, shoulder-length hair in the wind. It’s grown out a lot since the assholes at the warehouse shaved us bald.
Air tickles my arms, and my fingers flex and unflex as I hold on to Josh for dear life. At a stop sign, he pulls the supple leather of his cut to the side and rests one of my palms on his t-shirt. It’s damp from the humidity yet comforting as I watch the world fly by. We drive through downtown. Other bikers, some Sacred Sinners, others just weekend warriors, greet Josh with the typical low, two-finger hello. After what seems like a year, my muscles relax, and I breathe in the fresh, sticky summer air. It smells of earth and corn. Everything does this time of year in the Midwest.
Riding out of town and through the flat countryside, I want to ask him where we’re going, but once we pass a familiar rusted-out sign, I know where we are. It’s confirmed a minute later when Josh parks out front of a local watering hole that caters to bikers and drops his kickstand at the end of a row of motorcycles.
Hunter is standing out front of the old brick building, in a pair of jeans and a black heavy metal t-shirt with words I can’t make out, stretched across his chest. He smiles wide and waves a giant bouquet of roses at me. My stupid insides turn to goo, and my heart… it fills to the brim, damn near bursting. Josh helps me off the bike, takes my helmet, and doesn’t make fun of me when I race toward my son and wrap him up in the biggest hug. He’s taller than me now, and that’s okay. I rest my cheek against his shoulder and smash my lips together to keep from crying. I cannot cry. We’re here for a night out. We’re here to have fun.I need to hear all about his time at the clubhouse, working with the brothers. I’m sure there are plenty of stories to share.
Damn.
I’ve missed him.
A warm chuckle sounds behind me. “Let the boy go, pretty lady.”
I grip the back of Hunter’s shirt, and his cute, crackly going-through-puberty laugh rumbles in my ear. “Mom. It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Shhhh.” I hide my face against his shoulder. “I’m having mom time.”
Hunter pats my back like I’m diseased. “You’re being weird.”
“I’m allowed to be weird. Moms are weird.”
My child snorts. “You’re not.”
“I am now,” I grumble.
A thick, tattooed arm wraps around my waist, and Josh carefully extracts me from my son. I let him escort me into the bar, with Hunter in tow. I also let him pull a chair out for me at a table in the back by the pool tables, a dart board, and a handful of different pinball machines—Hunter’s favorite. Everyone greets us with chin lifts or waves. Hunter knows half a dozen people by name. It’s odd. Even more so when a waitress, close to Josh’s age, sashays over, all blonde and bubbly, and sets a Coke with two cherries in front of Hunter and a local brew on a white napkin in front of Josh.
“Thanks, Candice.” Josh flashes her a friendly smile. When she turns her attention to me, I expect her demeanor to change. That happens a lot in spaces like this, but it doesn’t.
“What can I get you, sweetie?” she asks.
“This is my mom,” Hunter says as he sets the bouquet on the edge of the table, and Josh stretches his arm across the back of my chair, where he traces designs on my shoulder.
The woman’s eyes widen, not in a bad way, but like she’s putting a name and face together. “Oh. Jade, right? I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s nice to finally meet you.” Her smile is polite as she poises a pen on a notepad to collect our order, while I’m still stuck on how she’s heard about me in the first place.
Josh must sense my unease when he throws out a random order, and Candice disappears.
Sitting on the edge of his seat, Hunter hitches a thumb toward the games. “I’m gonna go play.”
Josh pulls a stack of ones out of his cut and slaps them on the table. “Have at it, kid.”
“What do you say?” I chide when Hunter snatches the money and runs to lord over the pinball machines.
“Thanks!” he crows over his shoulder.
Josh and I chuckle at his lack of manners. That’s a teenager for you. I swear only half their brain cells operate at a time—the other half runs on heightened hormones and sugar.
When I turn to Josh, he knows what I’m about to ask even before I open my mouth. “Hunter and I come here a lot.”
