An ominous shiver rushes down my spine.
“He’ll be fine.” Bronson lets out a cool chuckle, and I snatch his hand, pulling him along the balcony, towards the sliding door, shouldering people out of the way. One thing is on my mind. Damage control. Protect my man. Dragging him out the front, I rush over to his bike. “We have to go.”
“Why? I just got here. Let’s go dance. I wanna see that sexy arse shaking,” he says, swaying his hips playfully as though he didn’t just throw a guy off the second-floor balcony.
“Because someone is going to call the cops!”
He looks around, catching the eyes of those swarming the lawn, surrounding the guy who is slowly sitting up. People bend to talk to him, assessing his injuries.
“You okay, mate?” Bronson calls over to him with a smooth and even voice. “Need an ambulance?”
“You’re fucking insane!” the guy growls, gripping his crippled arm with a shaky fist. “Get your bitch and get the hell away from me.”
Bronson lets out the loudest laugh I’ve ever heard from him, forcing my blood to become like ice in my veins. It is anything but a cheerful sound. He legs it towards the guy. Throwing his boot into the man’s head, he snaps it backwards. The guy’s body flops into a coma-like-state on the lawn.
My heart beats like a drum, but where I should feel more guilt, I only think,‘I did tell you that flattery would get your nose broken.’
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself more than anyone else.
Quickly, I run towards Bronson’s bike as he strides back over to me.
He grabs my helmet, the one Nina had on a few minutes ago, and slides it over my head. “Where to, baby?” Swinging his leg over and shuffling along the vinyl seat, he waits for me to jump on, then says, “Yeah. Probably best that we leave now, baby. Sorry I ruined your night.”
“Just go, nutcase.”
As the bike takes off, I revel in the feel of the humming below my thighs. I close my eyes and allow the sensation and motion of the bike to thrust me through the air, around the streets, gliding.
Bronson’s Ducati is my favourite sound. If freedom had a soundtrack, it’d be made up of the rumbles and growls of a motorbike engine, hinting at danger and excitement and possibilities. But the freedom I feel right now doesn’t just come from the bike’s ability to take us anywhere, but from the connection we share. The bike only manifests this single entity we become when we share it. We could go anywheretogetheron this bike.
Just the two of us.
No one else will fit.
No one else is needed.
I’m reminded of Nina and how she sits here too, provoking possessiveness like a ball of fire in my stomach. My fist closes around Bronson’s shirt, clenching over his hard sculptured abdomen.
We circle a big Norfolk Pine I recognise. Knowing we are about to head down a gravel track toward the shore, I grip him tighter. Although I know how competent he is on his Ducati, having spent more hours riding it than not, each bump still provokes an exciting little jolt to my heart.
The headlights flick through near blackness, spotlighting shrubbery and waves as we careen over the sand.
The bike slows as it approaches our little lookout, one we created for ourselves two years ago. His BMX takes us thirty minutes to get here. The Ducati, five.
I bounce off and walk straight towards the trail leading up the dunes. The sand crumbles away beneath my feet as I climb the steep incline, heading towards the overhanging wooden platform. Two steps forward, one back - it’s a workout.
“Someone has their panties in a twist. Can I see?” His laugh only stokes my frustration.
“You and Nina!” I snap.
His laughter increases and I hate how much I love the sound. “Not the fact I threw a guy over the balcony?”
“Why was she on your bike?” I call back to him, sweeping the pendulous shrubbery aside and trying to control my breathing, the fatigue of the climb having unsettled my voice.
“She didn’t play with your toy. She just used some of the accessories.”
I huff some more, the pathetic jealous tone so familiar now. I don’t want to share him. Not a single smile. Not a sweet cheeky comment. I want them all. “You’re not funny.” We reach our lookout. Lookout twenty-three. It is the furthest away. The hardest one to get to.
Which is why we love it.