“Left to right to get on. Feet on the pegs. Lean with you.”
He knocked on the helmet in my hands. “And?”
“Wear the helmet.”
“And?”
“Hold onto your waist or the seat behind me.”
“Good.” He flipped his visor down. “Come on. You can do it. I’ll make it fun. Promise.”
I whined and shook out my hands, pacing from foot to foot while a breath hissed out of me. “Fine.”
I tossed my hair back and settled the helmet over my head. I swung my leg over the motorcycle seat and wiggled until my legs were flush with his.
“Where to, Chef?”
“The burbs. Take High Street north for a while.”
“There’s good steak in the burbs?” he asked.
I snaked my arms around his front and patted his stomach, surprised by how firm it was even through his leather jacket. And how dang narrow his waist was. “You’ll see.”
“Alright, then. We’ll be turning at the bottom of the drive here. Kind of a practice run. Ready?”
“Okay,” I whimpered.
“You’re gonna do fine,” he said, and his warm voice through the speakers in my helmet made goose flesh rise from my skin. “I just know it.”
He revved the engine and we were off. At the bottom of his short driveway, he leaned left and I followed. We got to the stop sign at the corner and Harlan didn’t stop completely, looking all ways before turning into the intersection.
“There you go,” he hummed. “A natural.”
He was being nice, but it still felt a little like I was going to die. Harlan pulled out onto High Street and we were on a longer straightaway. Far more cold air than I expected rushed over me and the blast of it made me clutch his waist and turn my head tothe side. We got to a red light and Harlan chuckled. “Doing okay back there?”
“Mhmm,” I hummed, even though I absolutely did not feel “mhmm.”
Warmth pressed through my jeans as his hand squeezed my thigh. “You’re a good backpack. You’re doing great.”
I closed my eyes, letting the praise and his soothing touch hit me. Was I that touch-starved? A realization thrust my eyes open again. “Hey, whose jacket am I wearing?”
“My ex’s,” Harlan said.
The light turned green and Harlan took it upon himself to go exactly as fast as was possible. This was surely how people died in motorcycle accidents.
“I love you, Liam,” I whispered, thinking the end was near.
“Who’s Liam? Your man?”
“Fuck off,” I growled.
Harlan’s shoulders shook under me. “You’re squeezing me awful tight for someone who wants me to fuck off.”
“Well, stop driving so crazy!” I shot back.
“It’s riding. And I swear I’m going easy on you, princess.”
I huffed. “I never want to find out what hard feels like.”