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Yet… it still happened.
“You’re nuts,” he grumbled as he tucked the helmet on top of his head.
I smiled smugly at him. “I grew up rough, Tide. I learned to be persistent if nothing else.”
“You learned to be a persistent pain in the ass,” he agreed. “Come on.”
I didn’t want to come on.
But when he started to bawk like a chicken, I gritted my teeth and took the offered hand he was holding out.
“Where does my ass go?” I wondered, searching for a place and coming up empty.
He let my hand go and then mounted the bike with such fluid ease that I couldn’t help but admire him. The blue fabric stretched tightly around his thighs as his pants leg rode up, revealing some royal blue socks that would’ve looked ridiculous on anyone else.
But on him? They looked cute.
The fucker.
“This is where you put your ass,” he said as he patted the seat behind him.
There was literally enough room for a vagina the size of a toddler.
“Um,” I admitted as I looked at the small spot. “That’s enough room for like half of one of my vagina lips. That’s going to give my clitoris a concussion if I have to ride on it. I’ll just walk home.”
I tried to yank my hand out of his, but he held on tight. “Get on.”
I shook my head, revamping my efforts to yank my hand away.
Again, he held on so easily that the struggle was embarrassing.
And he was nearly causing my wrist to bruise.
The ass.
“Get. On,” he repeated.
I’d rather use the concrete to file my teeth.
“Elvis, if you do not get on, I’ll make sure everyone in this town knows how much you like Dolly Parton,” he growled.
I froze.
Nobody, and I do mean nobody, knew of my love for Dolly.
No one.
Except, apparently, him.
How had he known?
Honestly, it was kind of embarrassing how much I liked her.
I just always had. Something about her made my heart happy, even when I was in a really shitty mood.
“How’d you find that fake news out?” I wondered, trying to hide my embarrassment.
“One day, when you were going all goth girl in high school, I heard you belting out the lyrics. A couple of years later, I heard you singing the same thing after your brother called you fat,” he explained.
I winced.
That wasn’t something new.
My brother called me fat on multiple occasions.
That was nothing new.
“And then there was the time you dressed up like her on Halloween at that party you didn’t know that we were both invited to. It was very entertaining. Though, at the time, you…”
“If you finish whatever is about to come out of your mouth, you’ll find out how to revive yourself from a strangling,” I growled.
I didn’t have boobs.
I would never have boobs.
In fact, I had boobs that resembled lumps more than breasts.
He chuckled, then pulled me so that I was either getting on the bike, or lying over it sideways.
I chose to get on the bike.
“You know,” I grumbled as I tried in vain to find a comfortable spot. “The least you could do is have a pad on this wheel well. Literally, there’s nothing to ride on. I have a fat…”
I didn’t finish the sentence.
“FUPA?” He chuckled.
I frowned. “What’s a FUPA?”
I’d heard the term, but I’d never actually used it in a sentence. Nor had I heard it used by someone that was older than the age of eighteen.
“Fat upper pubic area,” he answered for me. “Which you sure as fuck have. Your kitty is definitely juicy and thick. Let’s just say that.”
Okay, so I had a FUPA.
But he didn’t have to point it out.
“And if you ever get on the back of my bike again, I’ll have somewhere more comfortable for you to ride,” he teased.
The ass.
He scooted up minutely, and then yanked me so close that I had no other choice but to be plastered to him, breasts down to thighs.
And everywhere in between.
It felt both good and bad.
Good, because I liked being pressed up against his hard body.
Bad, because that hard body came with an attitude that had always ruffled my feathers. And not in a good way.
“Let’s ride,” he teased.
“Let’s,” I grumbled.
The ride was… enlightening.
As in, I was enlightened to the fact that I really liked riding on the back of his bike, with my front pressed to his back. Even if my vagina was mostly numb due to the lack of seat to cushion it.
By the time we stopped at the last stoplight that would lead me to my house—and his as well—I was kind of bummed.
Which was why I likely didn’t notice the men that were pulling up in their jacked-up Jeep with their doors and top off.
“That’s a bitch thing to do.” I heard someone call. “Keep the helmet for yourself, and not protect your girl.”
