Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 50311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 252(@200wpm)___ 201(@250wpm)___ 168(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 252(@200wpm)___ 201(@250wpm)___ 168(@300wpm)
That little touch hits harder than it should. I flex my hand under the table.
She sets the glass down and looks at me differently now. “You’re not what I thought.”
“What’d you think?”
She shrugs. “Loud. Rough. Dangerous.”
I smirk. “Two out of three ain’t bad.”
She laughs again, and this time there’s nothing shy about it. It fills the space between us like music.
For the rest of the meal, we talk about nothing and everything—her plans for college, my shop, the way she likes her coffee (more creamer than coffee), the stray cat she feeds even though her mom says it’s bad luck. She tells me about her sketchbook, and I ask if she ever draws people. She looks away and says only the ones she’s scared to forget.
I don’t ask if I’ll end up in there one day. I don’t want to know.
When the plates are empty and the waitress brings the check, I reach for it. She opens her mouth to protest, but I shake my head.
“I asked you. That means I pay.”
She studies me for a second. Then she nods. “Thank you.” I see the relief in her face knowing if she tried to pay for this meal, it would hurt her pockets deep.
Outside, the night’s cooled down. The air smells like summer flowers. My bike’s parked under the streetlamp, gleaming like a promise or a warning. She walks beside me, close but not quite touching.
I open my mouth a couple of times. To say what, I’m not even sure. This whole thing’s got me off-balance. I’ve been on plenty of dates, but none that felt like this. Like we’re both on the edge of something we don’t have words for yet.
We stop beside my bike. She looks up at me, and the moment stretches thin and tight between us.
“I had a really good time,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.
“Me too.”
The silence after that is thick with possibility. She’s standing right there, lips parted, eyes soft. I could kiss her. She’s waiting for it. But I don’t move. Because she’s eighteen. Because I’m not. Because no matter how good this feels, she deserves more than impulse and heat and the taste of danger.
“I should get you home,” I say instead, pulling my helmet from the seat and handing it to her.
Her face flickers—something like disappointment—but she takes the helmet anyway. “Okay.”
I get on, and she climbs on behind me. Her arms wrap around my waist, and it’s a kind of intimacy I’m not ready for, but also never want to let go of. The ride back is quiet, the engine roaring under us, her warmth pressed against my back like a secret. When I pull up to her hotel, I almost ask her to my room, but I don’t. This is not where things need to go right now.
“Thanks for tonight,” she says.
“You’re welcome.”
Another pause. Her eyes search mine, like she’s looking for a reason, an answer, something.
“You gonna call me sometime?” she asks.
I smile. “Yeah. I’m gonna call you.”
She nods, like she believes me. Like maybe, just maybe, she trusts me a little now. And then she turns and walks to the door. She lifts her head like she’s praying to the Heavens the door will open. Once she steps inside, she doesn’t look back. If she did, she would see I am staring in wonder.
I commit the entire night to memory. Her voice, soft and brave. Her smile, full of questions. Her arms around me, just for a little while.
And the kiss I didn’t take.
We are supposed to be laying low. It’s been a week since our last trip here. A week of getting to know Cambria and wondering if this time I can have a simple taste of her lips before I have to go back home.
Easy transport. No heat, no risk. Just ride into Arkansas, drop the cargo, crash for the night, and head back to Catawba before the sun finished rising. Easy money.
Only thing is, nothing about this trip feels easy.
Toon and I cross the Arkansas state line around dusk, the air thick with bugs and humidity, our tires humming across cracked pavement. The trailer we’re hauling ain’t much—just the body and chassis of a custom car and some parts. Technically legal, nothing flashy. Unless they pick the car apart. In the state it’s in, the modifications are visible and it doesn’t take a genius to know what the compartments are meant for.
Rex wants the alliance with Saint’s Outlaws to stay clean. Our club’s got too many eyes on it already, and the last thing we need is a messy handoff or a trigger-happy deal gone south. We normally don’t know what we are shipping. This is a rare occasion where we do. Salemburg Hellions, Stud did a custom car build for Saint’s. It’s got hidden compartments for transporting whatever they want. Most likely guns or drugs. Not my business what they do.