I clear my throat.
He swings on ahead, and for a beat, my hands pause, then they find his waist, my palms flattening against the rigid plane of his stomach. Seriously, what kind of workout routine builds abs like this? Oh, right. The ‘not entirely human’ kind. I can’t stop myself from letting my hands drift, a feigned shift for balance that’s really just an excuse to trace the impossible definition of him.
“No helmet?” I ask suddenly.
“I can’t crash,” he says simply.
“You mean you think you won’t.”
“No, I mean I tried. Can’t crash.”
He starts the engine, the roar shutting the conversation down fast. The motorcycle shoots forward and the city wind hits my face, whipping my hair back.
I hate how fast my heart starts pounding, how my entire body lights up the second I’m pressed against him. I hate the way his scent—leather and smoke—floods my senses, making every other smell in the city disappear. I hate how my hands knowexactly where to go, how my thighs grip the bike, how my body molds to his like it’s the only place it’s ever wanted to be. I’m supposed to be forgetting him, filing him away under ‘mistake.’ Instead, every vibration of the engine is just a reminder that I’m completely, totally, and utterly in love with him.
After what seems like an eternity, the bike slows.
“Alright,” he says. “First stop.”
The blindfold loosens and I blink. “The pawn shop?” I turn to him. “Seriously?”
He leans against the bike, all casual arrogance.
“Don’t tell me you’re here to get me a secondhand engagement ring because that would be so?—”
His face suddenly goes still, the playful energy vanishing in an instant, replaced by a look of profound disappointment.
My eyes widen. “Oh my-,” I gasp.
He bursts out laughing so hard he has to bend forward, the sound echoing in the street. “Got you.”
“Ass.”
“Come on,” he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the door. “I want you to meet O.”
“O?” I frown.
“Feel free to ask him about it yourself.”
The bell over the door jingles when we step inside. The pawnshop hasn’t changed much since that first time I came here. Every wall is stacked with things: radios, watches, guitar parts, tools, even old cameras. Things that probably shouldn’t work anymore but perhaps still do.
From the back room, a voice growls. “If you’re here to sell me another stolen car part, I swear to?—”
The same older man I met all those years ago steps out. I notice his beard looks grayer, but the rest is the same. Same wild hair, same crazy long beard, same grumpiness too.
He freezes when he sees Jax. “Well I’ll be damned.”
Jax grins. “Miss me?”
“Unfortunately.”
O looks him up and down.
Then his eyes land on me. “And who’s this?”
“You remember Sisk?” Jax says, his arm slinging casually over my shoulders. “Try to behave.”
O snorts. “No promises.”
