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As much as I wanted to slap him and get off his lap, I couldn’t. I hated to admit it to myself, but I didn’t want to move. It was like I was having an out-of-body experience. Out of nowhere, my feelings toward him felt warped, mixing into a cluster of emotions I didn’t expect when it came to him. I didn’t understand how I could go from hating him to wanting to stay right where I was. In his personal space.
What was going on?
It was confusing.
He was confusing.
“Why do you do this to me? You know I want nothing to do with you.”
“If that were true, you would have left already.”
“It’s not like I can call my chauffer to come pick me up. I don’t even know where we are.”
“We’re safe. Cops can’t find us back here if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“How do you know?” He didn’t have to answer. The realization hit me hard and fast. “It’s you, isn’t it? You’re the biker who outsped the cops last night.”
He narrowed his eyes at me, remaining silent.
“Where did you learn how to ride like that?”
He merely shrugged.
“And your family? Do they know?”
“What do you think?”
“Then how’d you learn?”
Again, silence.
“Is this your bike?”
He ignored my question, scolding, “I thought I made myself pretty fucking clear at lunch today. What the hell were you doing there in the first place?”
“I don’t answer to you. I can do what I want, Tristian.”
“Really?” he baited. “Whose lap are you sitting on, kitten?”
I glared at him.
“Street wars aren’t a place for Belle Montgomery to be.”
“But it’s a place for Tristian Hawkins to be?”
“Unlike you, I can take care of myself.”
“I can take care of myself too.”
“Tell that to the bruises you’ll be sporting after nearly getting trampled to death tonight.”
“That’s not fair.”
“You don’t belong there.”
“Neither do you.”
He rendered me speechless when he confessed, “My dad was a biker.”
