Plus it washes away the dirt. I pull the collar of my hoodie away from my body and dip my nose inside, sniffing.
Then I drop my hands from his jacket, scooting back as far as I can go as if he still won’t smell me. I don’t stink that bad. Maybe I can sneak into my foster mom’s and get some clean clothes today.
“Hold on to me,” he calls out.
He revs the gas, speeds off, and I squeeze the bike with my thighs as tightly as I can, but the motorcycle kicks into the next gear and lurches. I grab onto him, leaning into his back. “Slow down!” I growl.
But then I see the cop.
Oh, shit.
He switches gears, and I wrap my arms around his waist and tuck myself into his back as he swoops right again, down a side street, and then left down the next block.
I hold my breath like we all do when we’re driving and see the speed trap too late. You’re sure you’re caught, and you’re just waiting to see their fruit basket light up in your rearview mirror.
I grit my teeth together, my arms tightening around him like I don’t have control of it.
I wait to hear the siren behind me.
But I can’t take it. I glance over my shoulder.
They’re not there. The street is empty.
I tap him in the shoulder, yelling, “Go!”
Let’s get out of here before they change their minds.
He cuts right, speeds down a couple of blocks, and then takes a left and then another left, kicking it into gear and letting loose. We race down the highway, the rain splattering my helmet, and I relax my hold on him, just gripping his jacket.
But I stay tucked behind him, the drops cutting like darts when they hit.
This is kind of fun, to be honest. I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before. And for a moment, I let myself pretend. For a moment, I have parents and a house and a manicure, and we’re not on the run. I have a guy who makes love to me, and we’re free.
But the thing is, when that little animal in my arms looks up at me and I look back at her… It’s never you I see.
I’m paraphrasing, because I can’t recall his exact words, but I’d smiled when I’d overheard him earlier. I followed to get my phone back, but then I’d stopped just before the door to the surveillance room when he told whoever he was talking with to pull up her shirt. I peeked in and saw the blonde I’d kicked last night on the screen in some video. Is she his girlfriend? He’d called her Schuyler.
I’d heard rumors about him—that he never has sex—but it surprised me, how he talked. It was kind of hot.
Has he really never slept with anyone? I try not to notice the feel of his body flush with mine. My thighs hugging his. He’s tall and broad, trim and strong. It’s a shame he only ever sweats in the gym.
I glance over his shoulder, noticing his grip on the handlebar, the veins bulging through the back of his hand. What does he feel like when he touches someone?
Heat pools in my stomach, and I blink a few times, looking away.
He was right to be cruel with that girl, though.
It was the kindest thing, and I’m glad he’s incapable of pretending. How many men in her life will tell her they love her to get what they want? How many will say they’re single when they’re not? I don’t think he’d ever take something he wasn’t willing to give. She’s luckier than she realizes, because in that respect, he’s rare.
He pulls into a lot, parks the bike, and I don’t ask questions as I follow him to a car parked on the side of a warehouse. I glance behind me a couple of times, finally relaxing and letting out a smile.
I’m used to evading police. Not sure if he is, but he’s not bad at it. I’m not going to tell him that, though.
He yanks open the driver’s side door and climbs in, and I follow on the passenger side, both of us tossing our helmets into the back seat.
I look around, the smell of leather and cologne surrounding me, from the black seats to the polished dash, but that’s not how he smells. He smells like the air in October, cool and clean but there’s still a hint of something left over from summer. Very subtle. Is this his car?
It’s an old Pontiac GTO—silver—and it kind of looks familiar, but I can’t think right now enough to place it. I thought he had an Audi or something. I thought I’d seen him in it. Maybe it belongs to someone in his family.
He starts it up, and I stuff my hands in my coat pockets, slouching down in the seat. We head out, bouncing over the curb before turning onto the highway.