She swings her leg over and lands steady enough, but her hand catches my arm for balance. Her fingers grip leather. She freezes.
I look down at her hand.
Then at her.
“Allowed,” I say.
Her cheeks color, but she doesn’t pull away immediately.
Then she does.
Progress and retreat.
That seems to be our dance.
I take the helmet from her. Her hair falls loose around her face, wind-tangled and prettier than it has any right to be. The red lipstick survived the ride. Barely. It’s smudged just at one corner, and I have the sudden, violent desire to fix it with my thumb.
Or my mouth.
Bad idea.
Terrible idea.
I turn away and hang the helmet on the bike.
“Rules,” I say.
She looks toward the Fire Pit, where people are absolutely pretending not to stare. “More rules?”
“Neutral ground. No one starts shit inside.”
“What if they do?”
“They answer to the Kings.”
“That’s comforting in a criminal way.”
“Best kind.”
She breathes out, trying to steady herself.
From inside, music thumps low. Not club loud, not Saturday-night wild, but enough to put bass in the windows. Someone laughs. A glass breaks and immediately Cornbread’s voice booms, “That better be from the cheap shelf, you goat-brained son of a biscuit.”
Amelia blinks.
I sigh. “That’s Cornbread.”
“Cornbread?”
“Big bastard behind the bar.”
“That is his name?”
“Road name.”
“Why?”
“Because Biscuit was taken.”