Beg, Borrow, or Steal (When in Rome, #3)(49)

I can only make a mm-hm-type sound because yes, this is definitely much better. Oh yes, being pressed against Jack’s body is worlds better.

“Good,” he continues. “Now if you can’t tell already, I have helmet coms that let us talk easily to each other. I can turn on music too when you get more comfortable. Only rules are to brace your core when we get ready to stop so you don’t slam your helmet into the back of mine, and don’t fight me around turns. I know you’ll want to lead, but I need you to follow me on this one, okay? Where I lean, you go with me. Don’t try to counterbalance the bike yourself or it’ll throw my weight off. I lean, you lean, got it, Goldie?”

“Why do you say it like I can’t follow directions?”

“Because you don’t follow directions. You invent them—but never follow them.”

I tickle him and he flinches with a laugh. It stops me dead in my tracks. Are Jack and I playing? Yes. We are . . . and I love it. I’m scared of it—this joyous, reckless feeling—but I love it.

“All right, you ready?”

“Quit babying me. I’m fine. If I weren’t fine, I wouldn’t be on this bike. I’m not scared in the—eep!” I scream, squeeze the life out of his abdomen, and tuck my head against his back when he gives it gas and we start rolling.

He’s laughing his head off. “You were saying?”

“Shut up and pay attention to the road!”

“Are you scared?”

“No.”

“Liar. Open your eyes,” he says in that taunting voice of his.

“My eyes are open!”

“Emily . . . open your eyes.”

Son of a mind-reading bitch. I crack my eyes open and miraculously, we’re not dead.

“Did you see that?” he says. “A snail just passed us.”

“And he was going way too fast.”

Eventually we roll to a stop at the front of the parking lot (we haven’t even left yet?) and Jack looks both ways before telling me to hold on tight again and to lean with him as we take the turn. I think my soul is going to leave my body at these directions, but somehow, we make it. Jack keeps us off the pavement and before I know it, we’re cruising down the road, emerald-green fields on both sides of us, sun bright and happy overseeing the entire adventure. Jack keeps the bike at a nice cruising pace that doesn’t feel quite as scary as I imagined it would. He does not attempt anything lawbreaking with me on board.

“How ya doing back there?” he asks, and the joyful tone in his voice has my cheeks aching.

“Happy to not be dead.”

“Admit it,” he says through the helmet coms. “You’re having fun as my backpack.”

“I’m uncomfortable,” I say snootily.

“You’re in love with this thrill.”

“I hate adrenaline.”

“You’re a junkie now,” he replies.

“I’m impressed, I’ll admit it. But I’m not impressed enough to want to do this again.”

I’ll die before admitting to him how good it feels to have my arms around him. That the competency with which he drives this bike is turning me on maybe the slightest bit. Just a small amount. Tiny. Minuscule. It’s manageable.

A few minutes later when we pull up to the stop sign, he taps on his phone screen that’s mounted between his handlebars and then music is coming through my helmet. But not just any music. The familiar bars of “Pony” by Ginuwine blare in my ears as we take off.

“What are you doing?” I yell over the music.

“Impressing you enough to make you want to ride with me again.” His helmet angles a little in my direction. And then I gasp when his gloved hand grabs my fist that has been locked against his sternum. He spreads my fingers out flat against his body and then tugs my hands up to the top of his chest. Just as I hear the lyrics to something about a pony and getting on it his hand squeezes mine, pressing it into his hard chest as he slides it sensually down his abdomen. He’s singing along to the music and rolling his body like he moonlights in a dark club with a spotlight on the stage and a cowboy hat. Magic Mike on a bike.

He’s carrying my hand down down down and even though I’m mostly sure he’ll stop before my hand reaches the land of no return, I rip it away and smack him in the shoulder. “Pay attention to the road, menace!”

I can hear his low laugh when he cuts the music and takes the handlebars again, leaning forward. “I’m very good at multitasking.”

As we cruise for the next twenty minutes through our town’s gorgeous back roads, I realize I’m actually having fun. Maybe the most fun I’ve ever had in my life. And I’m having it with Jackson Bennett. And the fear and anxiety that always guides me, it’s nowhere in sight. I’m not thinking about anyone else on this bike besides me, and it’s the greatest relief I’ve had in years.

When we reach our road, Jack asks if I want him to turn in or keep going. It feels like a loaded question—with more than one interpretation. “Keep going,” I tell him.

Jack’s hand reaches back, wraps around my calf, and squeezes.

? ? ?

That night, with shaking hands and a sober mind, I open my laptop and purposely attach my manuscript to an email and hit send. I flop back on my bed, wondering how long it will take for a message to send one house over.