My arms are around Derby’s waist the same way they were on the way to the Fire Pit, but nothing feels the same now. Earlier, I held on because I was afraid of the motorcycle. Afraid of the speed. Afraid of the road. Afraid of the ugly memory of being thirteen on the back of a drunk pervert’s bike while he laughed every time I gasped.
Now, I hold on because I know what Derby feels like under my hands.
Solid.
Warm.
Dangerous.
Careful.
The last word is the one that ruins me.
I should be thinking about Jeremy. About Ruthanne Peck and her church-lady smile sharpened into a knife. About the people whispering inside the Fire Pit. About the fact that half of Hell has now seen me walk into a bourbon bar after getting off ofDerby’s bike, wearing lipstick and borrowed leather, letting his hand rest at my back like I belonged there.
Instead, I’m thinking about the alley.
About brick walls and bourbon breath.
About Derby’s hand on my waist.
About how close his mouth came to mine before he stopped.
This part still pretend?
My face burns inside Lottie’s ridiculous Queen Bitch helmet.
I should be grateful he stopped.
I’m grateful.
Mostly.
A decent woman would be nothing but grateful that a man did not kiss her while she was scared, buzzed on one drink, and tangled up in a lie we agreed to tell because my husband understands male possession better than female choice.
A smart woman would put that moment in a box, shut the lid, and remind herself that wanting Derby is just another reaction to fear.
Adrenaline.
Bourbon.
Public humiliation.
A handsome biker standing between me and shame.
Of course my body got confused. Of course I wanted to reach for the nearest strong thing and call it safety. Of course Ialmost let the line blur because I haven’t had one clean, wanted touch in so long that my skin doesn’t know how to behave.
That would be a reasonable explanation.
I hate reasonable explanations when they are lies.
Because Derby stopping did not make me want him less.
It made me want him more.
I press my cheek against the back of his cut and squeeze my eyes shut as Widowmaker takes a curve smoother than I expect from anything with such a terrible name. The engine vibrates beneath me, through me, a low thunder that makes the world feel far away. Wind tugs at my jacket. Kentucky rolls dark on either side of us, fields and fences and trees blurred into one long ribbon of night.
Derby rides carefully.