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“That’s my girl,” he says as he fastens the strap under my chin for me.
I have to look away as he does it because those words do something to me.My girl. Having been in his company for all of what, maybe two hours total? I feel silly for wanting to be his girl. But I get no reprieve from this sensory overload. He helps me onto the bike, the skirt of my dress riding up to accommodate the seat, and then Damien straddles the bike, reaching back and grabbing my butt to scooch me forward so that I’m flush against him. I’m convinced he can feel my heart hammering in my chest when he takes both of my hands and wraps them around his waist.
“I’ll drive slow,” he assures me again as we pull out onto the road.
I can’t hear anything except the sound of the engine as we drive, but my Lord, I can feel. There’s basically nothing between my ass and the leather seat, and truly nothing between my thighs and the denim of his jeans. My hair is blowing in the wind, my hands are practically touching his torso through the fabric of his shirt, and the vibration of the engine is seriously messing with my ability to control myself. I press into him a bit when we take a turn and then move my hands across his middle as if I’m trying to hold on tighter. By the time we get to our destination, I’m flush faced and slightly out of breath.
“So how was it?”
“Hmm?”
“Your first ride on a motorcycle. How was it?”
Smoothing my dress down as he helps me off the bike, I manage to collect myself. “Yeah, I liked it.”
He removes my helmet and then rubs my shoulders to warm them even though there is no need. “I’m glad you said yes,” he says after a moment, and then takes my hand and leads me inside.
I know the hostess from my Modern American Lit class, so she gives us a prime table on the outdoor deck even though there are people waiting. She waggles her eyebrows as she hands us our menus and Damien, who’s none the wiser, looks at me like I’m a little looney when I giggle.
He runs a hand over his hair and asks, “What is it? Do I have helmet head or something?” And this makes me laugh harder because he’s got hardly any hair to begin with.
“How could you get helmet hair with that crewcut?”
He rubs his hand over the top of his head again. “Yeah, that’s one thing about the service that I won’t miss someday. Not like I’d ever grow my hair long, but I’m a little tired of the high and tight look.”
“No, you wear it well. I just can’t imagine you with messy hair, that’s all. Wait,” I run a few fingers through my own hair, “doIhave helmet head?”
He reaches across and takes my wrist gently. “Your hair looks great…Perfect.”
A waiter comes by and takes our drink order. Damien asks for a water along with his beer and I hold my breath after ordering myself a vodka cranberry. I let out a sigh of relief when our server walks off without asking for ID.
“So Gracie, I know you’re an education major, I know you’re a ballerina—”
“A dancer, not a ballerina.”
He nods. “A dancer. I know you like grilled veggies and that your nickname is pickles.” That earns him a laugh. “But I don’t know the basics, like where you’re from or how old you are. Although I’m guessing you’re not quite twenty-one from the way you ordered that drink.”
“Busted. I’ll be twenty in February. Most of the off-campus places turn a blind eye to the drinking age but Rusty’s is tougher. I’ve only been here a few times.”
“You’re nineteen.”
“For a few more months. When is your birthday?”
“August fifth.”
“A summer baby.”
He nods, still studying me as the waiter places our drinks on the table. There’s not much on the menu at this place so I order ribs and Damien orders the fried chicken, which they claim is world famous. He orders mashed potatoes and kale salad for side dishes, and before thinking it through, I ask for a side of mac and cheese.
I take a sip of my drink and then shake my head. “You’re going to have to roll me out of here later.”
“After you rollmeout of here. Pretty ballsy tagging your fried chicken as world famous. I couldn’t pass that up.”
“Oh, I’m from Philadelphia by the way. You asked where I was from before.”
“Right. And I told you I’m from New York.”
“What do your parents think about you being in the Marines?”
