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CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
*Lace*
As soon as Chaz is done wrecking me, I ease out of bed, grab a quick bite to eat, and start getting ready for the day. Because, according to him, we are leaving… preferably before Coty wakes up. Not that I blame him.
When I am dressed and ready and pad back into the quiet bedroom to grab my stuff, a bow-tied… cell phone?... is on the bedside table next to a still sleeping Coty.
Just as I step forward to check it out, a quiet whistle pulls my attention to the bedroom door. Chaz shakes his head and gestures for me to follow him out, instead. Once we get past the kitchen, he holds up my helmet.
Everyone else is still asleep when the two of us sneak out into the sunrise.
Some of the guys’ bikes are manufactured without a passenger seat. I guess because of how fast they are — each HFL member owning one of the top-speed bikes of their chosen make and model. The Duc that Coty drives is one such bike. For the first couple years after we met, I was never able to ride with him. Last rally he showed up with a custom passenger seat and passenger pegs installed. I pretty much spent the entire weekend high on speed with my arms wrapped around his waist.
Chaz’s bike is a special case, too. His H2 is a special edition that was released a while back, catering to motorcyclists who wanted to ride with a passenger.
No clue why he chose that one over the slightly faster non-pillion version, but I am glad he did. Chaz is, by far, one of the most exciting Hell for Leather members to ride with — a treat I get infrequently since both Coty and Kal are usually putting their foot down on the matter.
Wisps of his low ponytail flick against my visor as we zoom down The Strip — the seasonally high-trafficked road still mostly empty thanks to the time of day. Here in Florida, the helmet laws are pretty lax. But for the most part, HFL wears theirs since they tend to stunt at a moment’s notice. That club — rather than state — rule sure doesn’t put me off none, though. I like knowing there is at least a modicum of safety when they hit the streets.
I am caught by surprise when Chaz turns into the parking lot of the old, abandoned amusement park where, just a few days ago, I was memorializing Rachal at the annual event for her that always precedes Bike Week. Usually, the guys just cruise The Strip or trek up to Steel Field to joyride.
Chaz slows and stops, flicking down the kickstand with the heel of his boot.
I hop off and start fingering the clip to my helmet while he, too, dismounts. His hand darts out and stops me, though. “Don’t take it off yet.” I re-clip the prong that had angled loose and drop my hands, waiting.
He leans against his bike, his own helmet still on but the visor lifted, so I open mine, too. “Ever consider learning how to do some stunts?” he asks.
I nearly choke instantaneously. “I don’t even know how to drive — ride? — a motorcycle, much less do stunts.”
He gives a nervous chuckle. “Well, that will need to change one day, but that’s not what I meant.”
I tilt my head, the angle making it fall a little deeper thanks to the weight of my helmet. “I’m not big on word searches, Chaz.”
“Um, right. What I mean is, you and me… stunting together. On the same bike. Like… couples stunting.”
“And your question is have I ‘ever considered’ that? Most certainly not,” I answer easily. “Me dying one day is inevitable; stunting on a motorcycle is not the way it will happen.”
He huff chuckles once. “Right. So no then?”
“Chaz!” I admonish.
His shoulders droop, he pulls in a deep breath, lets it out, steps forward, clinking the forehead of his thick helmet against mine, then explains. “Does the idea scare me?” he asks hypothetically. “Yes. But you already know that I get off on that type of thing.” His hands come to my upper arms. “Can I promise you won’t get a little banged up?” He waggles his eyebrows. “No.” His sea-green eyes meet mine through our open visors. “But I take these risks because I trust myself. I take it very seriously and use all my senses to listen to the process. I would never ever do something that might risk your life.”
And with Chaz, that comment holds a hell of a lot of weight. I know he cares about me. He has never caused me to believe otherwise. Chaz steers clear of mind games. His feelings are always raw. Real.
“W-what did you have in mind?” I ask, heart still pattering regardless.
The gleam in his eyes sparks crazy bright, lids popping wide. “Sh-shit… umm… fuck.” I suppose he expected me to give him a hard no which makes me appreciate that he still had the balls to ask anyway.
His unfocused gaze moves out toward the gulf across the street; I can tell his thoughts are rapidly flicking through all the position options and trying to figure out which one to choose. “We can start easy. Have you sit in front, facing me, with your legs over mine. I still have access to the handlebars that way, bending forward. Then, if we get brave, we can lean into a wide circle, hands free.”
My teeth snag the inside of my bottom lip, and I worry at it hard. “So, I just sit… backward… but in front of you, right?”
“For your part. Right. Yeah.” Chaz slips his hand under his pony tail and rubs it hard on the back of his neck.
“Are you nervous?” I ask, playing with my fingers.
“Oh, crazy nervous. Mostly because I want you to be comfortable, though.”
I nod, and the helmet bobs heavily. “Okay. I-I can do that.”
“Yeah?” he asks, voice high-pitched and shaky.
I chuckle. “Yeah. Any strange bruises show up on my body, you’ll be doing the explaining to Coty, though.”
Eyes crinkling in the corners through his visor, Chaz thrusts out his hand, and we seal the deal.
