Page 25 of Forget Me Not

I’m not good at long-term relationships. Between work taking up a good chunk of my time and the man I’m with expecting me to open myself up to him, something I never do, it just doesn’t work out for me. Sleeping around isn’t my thing either though. It’s hard for me to want to have sex with someone who I barely know and am just not comfortable with. So lately I’ve just given up on the idea of men altogether.

“I don’t know, six months ago, maybe?”

Demi gives me a look as if she doesn’t believe me.

“Okay, so maybe eight months ago? I don’t know, Dem. What do you want me to say? It clearly wasn’t very memorable.”

“Interesting,” is all she says before there’s a loud knock on our apartment door. I turn around, ignoring her and head toward the door. “Have fun on your date,” she yells behind me. “Be safe. I’m not at the fun aunt stage in my life just yet.”

“Fake date, Demi. There will be no fucking,” I yell back at her.

“Whatever!” she shouts as I open the door. An arrogant smirk sits on Kade’s face as I push my way through, not giving him a chance to come inside before locking it behind me.

“No fucking, huh?” His eyes look up and down my figure. I fight the urge to shiver as I feel goose bumps rise over every inch of flesh they touch.

Having Kade’s eyes on me makes me feel a way I’ve never experienced. I’ve felt comfort from a man’s stare. I’ve felt anger. I’ve felt panic. I’ve felt heat. But with him, it’s like I feel everything all at once. It’s overwhelming and also not enough.

“That’s a shame,” he says. I feel my cheeks heat as I look away from him.

Fake date, fake date, FAKE date.

“So where are we going?” I ask, following him as he heads toward the stairwell.

“You hungry?” he asks, opening the stairwell door for me.

“Thank you,” I say, stepping through, “Sure. I could eat.” My stomach growls loudly just as the words leave my mouth and I hear him chuckle behind me. I’ve barely eaten all day due to the nerves over going out tonight, and I’m now starting to realize that was definitely a mistake.

“I can see that,” he says, and I die of embarrassment a little bit more.

“Shut up,” I scold him, which only makes him laugh more. I follow him down the stairs and out toward the parking lot. He stops in front of a large motorcycle and looks back at me.

“Absolutely not,” I say. “You had a car last time you drove me home. Where’s the car? Because there’s no way I’m getting on that death machine.”

“My car is at home in my garage, and this death machine is a Kawasaki Ninja H2.” He gestures to the bike. It’s black and gray with a hint of green. It’s massive and terrifying. “It’s nice out tonight, a perfect time to ride it. You’ll be fine.” He unlocks a helmet from where it hangs on the small attachment toward the back of the bike.

“Come here,” he says.

As usual, my body obeys him. I walk toward where he stands in front of the bike before my mind has a chance to catch up. He slides the helmet onto my head, a heavy weight settling in where it rests. He reaches under my chin to tighten the straps, his fingers brushing my skin in the process. He clips it in and lets his fingers slowly trail down my neck before removing them. I don’t know whether the movement is deliberate, but it feels like every touch from him intoxicates me a little further.

He moves around the other side of the motorcycle, unlocking a second helmet and fastening it on himself. He swings a leg over the beast, scooting all the way forward before looking back and reaching out his hand toward me. I hesitantly move toward him, gently placing my hand in his.

“Step here.” He grasps my hand tighter while gesturing where to step to haul myself up behind him. I do as I’m told, swinging my leg over the bike except with about a quarter of the grace that he had when doing so.

Once seated, my body immediately slides forward. My inner thighs mold to the back of his and my chest presses tightly against his back. My body tingles from the contact. I go to scoot back slightly, trying to put a sliver of distance between us, but his hand grasps my thigh, prohibiting me from moving even an inch.

“Stop that,” he says. “I like you close to me.” I don’t respond as he grabs my hands, wrapping them tightly around his waist. He is wearing jeans with a black T-shirt that is thin enough that if I were to move my hands, I’m sure I could feel each individual ripple of muscle lining his stomach. That thought alone does nothing to help the steady heat I feel coursing through my body at our closeness.

“Hold on tight,” he says, and I nod my head before realizing he can’t see me. “I’m serious, Lo. You hold on tight and do not let go for any reason, understand?”

“Yes, I got it.”

He turns the key, and a loud rumble fills the air leaving no more room for conversation. I can feel the vibrations from the engine running through my body. I don’t know whether I’m shaking from the engine or fear.

As someone who has been in a life-and-death situation before, I know the feeling of adrenaline well. It’s not something I seek in my life anymore. In fact, I’d go as far as saying that it’s something I actively avoid. I tend to associate it with the same fear I felt eight years ago. Add that in with the fact that I’ve treated more motorcycle crash victims than I can count, and it’s safe to say that I’m on the verge of a panic attack.

Strangely, the only thing grounding me is the warmth of Kade’s body pressed against mine. I’ve never felt that sort of comfort from a man before. That just his body against mine has the ability to make me feel safe. Like if anything were to happen, it would all be okay as long as he’s right here with me. I think it may be equally terrifying.

Kade pushes off the ground, accelerating forward and I instinctively hold him tighter. I’m most likely squeezing him to death, but if he’s in pain, he doesn’t complain. I squeeze my eyes shut as we propel out of the parking lot and onto the open road.

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