I don’t need another job, and yet I’m still here.
I don’t need to go out with Beau tonight, and yet I do.
I hold him close, the wind whipping against us as we race down the highway into the city.
At every stoplight, he reaches back and rubs my calf until it turns green again.
And nothing about any of it feels fake.
29
Beau
Willa: Talked to my dickhead brother. Just drop your names at the door. His name is Ford Grant Jr., and you can ask for him if you run into any problems.
Beau: Junior?
Willa: Yeah. Emphasis on the junior. It’s his favorite.
Beau: For some reason I don’t believe you. But thanks, Wils. I owe you one.
Willa: Cool. Actually, you can pull the little hairs at the back of his neck and say it’s from me. He loves it.
Beau: I will not be doing that. But I’ll tell him you send your love.
Willa: Lol. Yeah. Tell him that. That’s even funnier.
It’s dark out by the time we hit the city. I got caught up with work today and didn’t make it back home until later than I thought I would.
Bailey presses against my back, her arms wrapped tight around my waist. She squeezes tighter every time we take off from a standstill, and it makes me want to stop and go all night.
I know she wasn’t super keen on the bike. In fact, her words were, “Don’t get us killed, soldier. Things are finally looking up for me.”
And then she swung a leg over and hung on for dear life.
I revel in the feel of her against my body, in the knowledge that she trusts me with her life. Cocooning her in my bed last night stuck with me all day, and I’m not above admitting part of the reason I wanted to do this tonight was to have her close again.
I want her to sleep with me again too. But asking for that with the way we designed our relationship feels too forward.
Getting into her bath and making a meal out of her was probably too far too.
So maybe Bailey is right. Maybe I am impulsive. But only where she’s concerned. And I don’t regret it.
We stop at another red light. The bar I want to take her to is just ahead. I reach back, trailing a hand from her knee down over her calf. Hoping I haven’t freaked her out too badly with the bike, I squeeze her reassuringly.
I turn over my shoulder, my helmet bumping against hers. “You okay, sugar?”
She nods.
“Almost there.”
The light turns green, and within minutes, we pull up in front of Gin and Lyrics. Owned and operated by the one and only Ford Grant—world famous investor slash record producer and Willa’s older brother. Which is the only reason I got our names on the VIP list.
This bar offers music of all kinds. Different genres on different nights. Concerts for slightly bigger bands, talent nights for newbies. Tonight, there’s a DJ playing. I don’t know shit about them, but I figured a night in the city for Bailey to have fun without constantly having to look over her shoulder would be a good gift. She’s still so young. She needs some fun in her life.
I want to give that to her.
“We’re here,” I say as I pull my helmet off and run a hand through my hair. Bailey’s hands trail over my back and my ribs as she extricates herself from the bike. Music thumps from inside, and when I glance back, she looks excited.
Her eyes sparkle like dark gemstones as she straightens her hair, only slightly flattened on top from the helmet, then curling in little swoops around her arms. Long and loose.
She looks carefree for once.
Platform sandals prop up her wide-leg, loose jeans, and the skin on her chest shimmers from the reflection of the lights out front. She’s wearing a black leather jacket with a little tear in the elbow and a corset-style tank top that has me fighting not to stare at her breasts like some basic asshole who sits at her bar every night.
Even though I am one.
“I’ve heard about this place,” she murmurs, combing her hair out with her fingers. There’s a soft smirk on her lips. A flash of anticipation in those chocolate depths. “Have you been here?”
I shake my head no, struck speechless by how different she seems in the glow of the city lights.
She’s standing taller.
Her eyes aren’t darting around.
It seems as though just getting her past those town limits has given her a boost.
Even her voice sounds different—less sugary and fake. More sultry, like she isn’t trying to be someone else.
She can be herself here.
And I can’t stop staring at her.
“Beau?” Her head flips in my direction, hair whipping over her cleavage, hip cocked out.