“Motorcyclists are twenty-nine times more likely to die in a motor vehicle accident,” I recite, feeling more embarrassed the more I speak. Where did I get that statistic? I don’t even know if it’s true.
His eyebrow quirks up. “All right. But what’s life without risk?”
“Safe?”
“Dull,” he counters. “And you don’t want to be that. Come on.”
I hesitate. It’s a long walk. If I accept this ride with him, I can be snuggled in my bed in twenty minutes. “Fine.” I march to the bike and glare at it. “How do I get on?”
He strides over. “Chill for a second.” He grabs the helmet and hands it to me. “Put this on.”
“What about you?” I protest. “You need a helmet too.”
“I’ll be fine. Just put it on.”
With a bit of reluctance, I take his helmet and slip it over my head. It smells of sandalwood and something manly, like motor oil. I feel ridiculous in it. Chase straddles the bike and shifts forward on the seat, then stands up to jump on the starter. It roarsto life, so loud that the fillings rattle in my teeth. I try to ignore the way my heart thrums when he looks at me, his golden hair falling in his face.
“Climb on,” he says, his voice gruff. “Behind me.”
I realize there’s no way to avoid getting extremely close. There isn’t much space between the back of the bike and him. I don’t want to fall off the seat, so that means I’ll be gripping him for dear life.
I lightly skim my hands on his hips and try not to let my inner thighs touch him too much. Good. Fine.
But then he takes off so fast that I wrap my hands around him, knotting them over his chest and pressing myself entirely against his back like I’m a part of his body. I bury my face between his shoulder blades and let out a shriek.
“You okay?” he calls as he makes a turn.
I clench my teeth, certain I’m going to end up a spot on the pavement. Even so, he smells nice. Like soap and that woodsy aftershave. It’s probably the last nice thing I’ll ever experience in this world.
“Hey, you know. You can let me breathe,” he drawls over the whoosh of the wind around us.
Yeah. I’m gripping him too tight, as evidenced by the fact that my fingers are starting to hurt. Once I get more comfortable, I slowly release my clenched hands and pull my face away from his back.
Actually, it’s not so bad. It reminds me of the first time I learned to ride a bike, that freedom, my father proudly applauding behind me as I took off away from him.
My father.
He hung himself tonight.
He’s dead.
I swallow the knot in my throat and push away the reminders. The last thing I need now is to have a breakdown of my own, in front of Chase. He already doesn’t like me. I concentrate on pulling the cool night air through my lungs and on the roller-coaster-like thrill of the ride. By the time we near my house, I’m a little sad it’s over.
“Wait. Stop here,” I order when he’s about to pull into the long driveway.
Chase puts his feet down and idles there. “Why?”
I point at the engine as I slide off the seat. “Too loud. You’ll wake my aunt and uncle.”
He cuts it. The sudden silence is almost shocking. There isn’t even the sound of crickets. “Better?”
I nod, take off the helmet, and hand it to him. “Thanks for the ride.” I turn to leave, but my feet won’t go. And it’s probably because my father is dead and I have other things that matter more, that I find the courage to ask, “Why don’t you like me?”
“Who said I didn’t?”
“I just get the sense you hate me.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then he pulls the helmet over his head and says, “I don’t trust you. That’s all. I don’t like the way you look at Everett.”
