Page 13 of Wild for the Knight

“Tatum, where are we?”

“My place.” My eyes narrow as I let that sink in.

“Mighty presumptuous of you to assume I want to go home with you.”

He grunts as he grabs my bag out of the car, hiking it over his shoulder as he walks toward the elevator. “Move it, Tink,” he grinds out.

I fight to keep a smile off my face at the fact that the walking storm cloud gave me a nickname and has used it more than once. Oh, and I’m at his house. Who woulda freaking thought. Maybe I’m dreaming. I’ve disassociated so much that my subconscious is telling me all the things it really wants. Wait, no. That would be worse than reality. I don’t want anyone, especially not this guy.

We walk inside his apartment, and it’s so Tatum. I mean, technically Zeke, too. I laugh at how well it fits the two of them. “What?” he says as he puts my purse down on the island.

I look around the industrial-style apartment, the sports posters hanging on the dark brick walls in the living room, the Pele´ book at the bottom of a stack of soccer literature sitting on the coffee table. The dark brown leather couch looks broken in and welcoming. Black pipes run across the ceiling, and dark wood covers the kitchen.

I lose it; bending over at the waist, I let go of all the tension I’ve held onto for the past hour. Honestly, at this point, I feel like the guy from Arrested Development who cries into a soap bar in the shower. How is this my life? “I’m sorry. Your apartment is just the perfect depiction of your personality. Dark and gloomy.”

Except it’s not. It’s homey, inviting in a way that only makes sense where this man is involved. Not that I’ll admit that out loud. When I finally look back up at him, the trademark scowl isn’t there. Instead, there’s a look that I can only describe as a confused puppy. His head is tilted to the side, face relaxed as he watches me. “Are you secretly a vampire?” I ask, trying to diffuse the urge to launch myself at him.

I think I’m hallucinating when an actual smile breaks out across his face. I’m talking teeth and everything. Holy freaking moly. I’m so thankful he doesn’t do that more often because I would simply melt into a puddle.

“You caught me.” He winks. “Let’s keep that between us, though.” His smile turns predatory as he walks toward me. My brain tells my body to run, but my feet stay planted where they are. His hand snakes up the side of my neck, landing on my nape as he pulls me closer to him.

“What are you doing?” I ask as my head angles back so I can look at him, the fire burning in his eyes is unmistakable.

His forehead meets mine as he exhales. “I don’t know what those guys did,” he whispers, “but I’m not letting you go home carrying that weight.” We hold each other in a stare-off that should be uncomfortable, would be uncomfortable if it were anyone else. But here? Now? It’s like he’s seeing all the broken pieces of me.

My eyes roam over his face, his dark eyelashes frame his heavy-lidded eyes as they stare into the deepest, darkest parts of me. The parts I’ve kept hidden from even my best friend. He doesn’t run, instead, he pulls me further into his orbit. Like my demons call to his, recognizing each other, dancing together under the cloak of darkness.

He pulls back and grabs a set of keys off the counter before grabbing my hand. “Come on.” He pulls me back toward the door, causing me to stumble briefly before I fall in line behind him.

Back in the elevator, I stand on the opposite side, putting as much distance between us as I can. I refuse to look at him because, dang it, if I did, I’d climb him like a tree. A feeling that is so foreign to me, it’s easy to ignore.

Once we get to the parking garage, he leads me away from where he parked my car to his... Oh no. “Hard pass. I am not getting on that death machine.” I point at his motorcycle, my head shaking vehemently.

He laughs, actually laughs. Who is this person? Did the real Tatum get kidnapped? Abducted by aliens, maybe? He puts the key in and turns, bringing my attention to his strong hands; the bike roars to life under his touch. The sound is as exhilarating as it is terrifying. The way he straddles the bike brings my attention from his arms to his thighs. Damn, he’s got a killer posterior chain. Nice round butt, well-defined hamstrings, and calves you could rest a glass on. Those jeans leave very little to the imagination. Honestly, they might be painted on him. “Get on,” he says like he’s not asking me to sign my death warrant.

My eyes feel like they weigh a metric ton as I stare blankly at him. He just shakes his head, turning partially around and patting the seat. My head angles toward the ceiling of the garage as I throw up a silent prayer to not let this be how I die. Taking two steps forward, I place my hand on his shoulder and swing a leg over the side. “Watch the pipe, it’ll get hot.” He motions to the rumbling pieces of silver that run the length of the bike. “You’ll feel the heat on your ankle since you don’t have boots on. Just don’t rest up against it.” I nod because what else can I do?

He hands me a helmet, and I quickly buckle it under my chin as he does the same. My mind cannot comprehend the fact that I’m on a freaking motorcycle with Tatum Wilder, who, up until a few hours ago, I was convinced was the bane of my existence. I don’t know what to do with the softer side of him. The side Hannah swore up and down was in there, but I never believed actually existed.

He said he was going to get me out of my head, and it’s not very fun in there at the moment, so I thought, why the hell not? If I’m being honest, this is certainly not the first or even the hundredth thing that came to my mind when he said that. A decade of a dry spell being woken up all of a sudden puts your brain on a one-lane track. Straightaway, no turns. Just get me to the end as fast as you can. HA! Right.

I don’t get to read into it much more as the bike starts to move, and I let out a squeal, quickly wrapping my arms around his waist. My head finds a place on his back, and I feel the vibration of his laugh on my cheek as he reaches back and pats the outside of my thigh.

My body heats at the intimacy of the movement. I’ve seen it on those motorcycle club shows, the man resting his hand or arm on the thigh of the woman behind him in a display of possession or affection. Who knows, probably the former, men and their pissing contests.

As we take off down the road, I find myself relaxing into him. We head in the direction of Long Boat Key, one of my favorite places in the world. The wind sends my low ponytail flying in all directions as we go; the freeing feeling is like nothing I’ve ever felt. Like I’m flying but still on the ground. I laugh as he takes a curve, one of his hands moves to cover mine, which are still clasped tight at his waist. Like he’s offering me a lifeline, letting me know he’s here.

He pulls to a stop at The Beach House. I start to let go so I can get off, but I’m stopped by a squeeze of my hands. “Stay,” he grunts as he puts the kickstand down, leaning the bike slightly to the side. My surprised yelp dies in my throat as he pulls his leg over the seat and offers me his hand.

“Abby,” I say as I slide my hand in his, “And you are?” I ask because I’m going with my abducted-by-aliens theory. He just looks at me, but unlike his normal stare, this one isn’t filled with annoyance. It’s filled with concern. Deflect, you idiot. Right.

“Ahh, you’re a rowdy one, huh?” I joke as I take my hand from his and turn toward the front door of the restaurant. I feel like a fish out of water. How does one deal with seeing a side of someone that is vastly different from the way he’s been for the entirety of the time you’ve known him?

There’s been enough system shock for one day; adding a personality adjustment is going to send me over the edge. He’s so much easier to dislike when he’s a jerk. My hand meets the big, brown door handle, but before I can wrap my fingers around it, his hand gently swats mine away as he swings the door open with ease.

I look up at him over my shoulder, his scowl firmly back in place. “Thanks, Sunshine,” I say as I give him my sugariest smile. His nostrils flare at the name, but his face softens ever so slightly. I skip inside and wave to the hostess, who takes in the two of us with wide eyes. I’m sure the vast differences between us are shocking to people we don’t know. Me with a wide smile, him with a deep scowl. My skip to his heavy-footed walk. My blonde hair to his jet black. The list is endless.

I head out the back to the patio, my favorite part of this place. At night, it’s tranquil; the smell of the salty air fills me with a level of peace I’ve only ever associated with this place. My aunt and I used to come here every time she came to visit when I was a kid. When I turned twenty-one, she flew out just so we could have a margarita together. Her smile and the animated way she told her stories will always be one of my favorite things.