Page 99 of What Hurts Us

“Good, because it’s never changing.” He took my left hand in his, raising it to his lips and kissing my bare ring finger. “Time for our second first date. Grab your helmet.”

The motorcycle helmet I had commandeered since our first ride had been modified by Callum. It now sported a decal with wings, matching the sticker I had on my flight helmet. It was a small gesture that claimed a piece of my heart. It tied us together in a way that didn’t include rings and false intentions of matrimony.

Cal parked the Harley outside of a hole-in-the-wall restaurant that promised two-dollar tacos and drafts. We gorged ourselves on al pastor, barbacoa, carne asada, and the best chips and salsa I had ever tasted. I drained the last of my Coke while Cal finished off his last taco.

“Not gonna lie. If this was our first-first date, it’d be a solid start.” I stared at our crumb-cluttered plates, satisfied with the fullness of my belly.

He grinned, swiping a napkin over his mouth. “If it was our first-first date, we wouldn’t be going home together and having sex after.”

I snorted. “Pretty sure you’re supposed to wait thirty minutes after eating before having sex.”

He grinned, pocketing the receipt and leaving a few bills on the table. “That’s swimming, honey.”

“So,” I said as we walked hand-in-hand out of the restaurant. “You’re saying that if we were on our first-first date, you wouldn’t have sex with me?” We stopped at the bike and lingered. “I didn’t take you for such a choir boy, Fletcher.”

Cal dropped his helmet on one of the handlebars and hooked his fingers in my belt loops, drawing my hips to his. “With you all dressed up like this? I might press my luck. His hand snuck beneath my jacket and grazed the side of my breast. “I’d probably try to run a few bases. See how far you’d let me go.”

“I’d let you go all the way.”

“On a first date?”

“Yes.”

His fingers brushed my hair away from the side of my face as he kissed my cheek. “I like your honesty, Miss Mousavi.” Cal took my helmet, slid it over my hair, and secured the chin strap. “You ready to go?”

“Back to your house for sex?” I asked as I swung my leg over the bike.

Callum donned his motorcycle gloves and zipped his jacket, warding off the frigid night air. “Pretty sure it’sourhouse, honey.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yours. Your name is on the deed.”

His jaw flexed. “If this is gonna work, it’sours.Our house. Our life. Our relationship to put first.”

“Okay.” The whisper was easy. Simple.

“I don’t want to start this with you having one foot out the door.”

I reached out and touched his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Cal took the scenic route out to Chapel Hill, cruising through winding back roads before pulling into town and dodging clueless college students who were venturing off campus for the first time. He parked the bike next to a coffee and wine bar and took my hand. “How’s it feel?”

“What?” I asked as we hopped up onto the sidewalk. Cal switched places with me, putting himself between me and the curb. “The bike?”

“Yeah. You’ve been out with me a few times now. How do you like it?” We passed a crowded bar patio, and Cal gracefully guided me behind his wide body with one arm when a man stumbled out, staggering onto the sidewalk.

He was so alert. So in tune with his surroundings. It never ceased to amaze me how he could carry on a casual conversation while moving and manipulating everyone around him.

Callum Fletcher wasn’t the big bad wolf. Beneath the biker boots, all the muscles, tattoos, and irritated looks beat the heart of a protector.

The sidewalk cleared, and we walked side-by-side. Cal’s hand slipped into the back pocket of my jeans. The man took advantage of any opportunity he could find to have his hands on my ass.

Music filtered out of a narrow alleyway. Cal grinned as he grabbed my hand and pulled me through. We ran like two kids sneaking out after curfew. He yanked open a steel door and slipped inside, dragging me in behind him. Stage lights were clouded by smoke. The ambient clink of beer bottles rattled from the bar in the corner. We bobbed and weaved, snaking through the crowd until we found a patch of floor space with a little breathing room.

The lead singer—a woman with tight brown curls wearing anit wasn’t just a phaset-shirt—wailed into the mic. Guitar riffs roared, and I felt the beat of the drums pulsing through my veins.

It was hypnotizing. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been out to see live music. Callum stood at my back and wrapped his arms around me. I threw my hands in the air as the band switched to a cover I knew. His hands moved to my hips, rocking with me.

“You know, I like to see you like this,” he said into my ear. The volume inside the small venue was reaching critical, so he had to shout.

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