But I know it’s there.
I always know.
“It’s beautiful,” she says softly.
I clear my throat. “It protects your head.”
“It does both.”
“Sounds inefficient.”
Her smile comes back.
She puts it on.
“I’m not riding bitch again,” I say. And I mean it.
Then she climbs behind me on Widowmaker without hesitation.
That almost takes me apart.
No stiff fear. No hovering. Her hands settle at my waist, then slide around me. Familiar. Still careful, but not because she is scared of the bike. Because touching me means something now and she treats meaning with both hands.
I start Widowmaker.
August bangs on the window and waves Throttle’s tiny arm.
I lift two fingers.
Then we ride.
Kentucky takes us in like it has been waiting.
Not the town routes. Not the Fire Pit yet. Not the clubhouse. I take the back roads that curve past horse farms and tobacco barns, over low hills and beside creeks flashing silver in the evening light. The air is warm. Her thighs hug mine. Her body leans with the curves now, trusting the ride enough to move with it instead of fighting it.
Every time she does, something in me settles.
We pass the turnoff for Hell Road.
I feel her hands tighten around my waist before I even slow.
Dead Man’s Curve waits down that road, tucked into trees and old stories. The first place I found her. The place a blown tire stopped her from driving any farther. The place where the Widow may have watched from the fog, or the weeds, or whatever corner of Hell roads keep for women who need saving and men who deserve wreckage.
I let Widowmaker drop speed.
I turn onto Hell Road.
Widowmaker rumbles beneath us, steady and low. The trees close in, familiar and green-dark, their branches lacing overhead like the road is trying to keep secrets. The curve comes slow. I don’t gun it. Don’t show off. Don’t make the road prove anything. Amelia’s body stays tight against mine, but she doesn’t ask me to turn around.
We roll through Dead Man’s Curve like two people passing a grave they are not ready to visit but refuse to fear.
Nothing steps out.
No woman in white.
No ghost in the road.
Just wind through trees, a pale scrap of cloth caught on a branch near the ditch, and Amelia’s hands slowly unclenching at my waist.