I put mine on before I say something stupid.
Then I swing onto Widowmaker and start her.
The engine roars awake hard enough to shake the air. August screams in delight from the porch. Amelia jumps and grabs the helmet strap with both hands like she may yank it off and run.
I cut the throttle down and look back. “You good?”
“No.”
“Honest answer. I like it.”
“I might throw up.”
“Try not to do it down my back.”
“Derby.”
“Right. Comfort. Forgot.” I pat the seat behind me. “Left foot on the peg. Swing your right leg over. Hands where you want them. If you need off, you tap my shoulder twice. If you want me slower, tap once. If you panic, hit me. I’ve had worse.”
She studies me.
“You’ve done this before,” she says.
“Taken women on my bike?”
“Taken scared people.”
I shrug. “Everybody’s scared of something.”
That ain’t an answer.
It’s the only one she is getting today.
She steps closer. I feel the heat of her before she touches me. She puts one hand on my shoulder, careful, and swings onto the back. The bike dips under her weight, not much. Her knees come in on either side of me. Her body hovers, refusing contact.
I give her a second.
Then another.
The driveway gets too quiet.
Her hands rest lightly on my jacket, barely there.
“Amelia,” I say over the engine.
“What?”
“You can hold on. Bike won’t care, and neither will I.”
“I don’t want to squeeze too hard.”
I almost laugh, but there is something in her voice that stops me.
Too hard.
Too much.
Too needy.