AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He grabs my hand and drags me around the side of the building where a black motorcycle is parked. The helmet he hands me is heavy like a bowling ball. "Put this on."
"Uh. I've never ridden on a motorcycle."
The bandage on his eye goes up with his eyebrow lift. "I've never had a girl on the back of my bike before."
"Oh."
In one glorious movement, he shrugs off his denim jacket, slides it down his arms, and holds it out to me. "Wear this."
He sounds unshakable, so I push the much-too-large helmet on my head. I take the jacket from him and slip it over my shoulders. It's warm and smells so good I could live in this jacket. I hold the collar up to my nose and take a sniff. Hewatches me and grins. He keeps smiling as he buckles the helmet straps tighter under my chin.
He throws a leg over and brings the bike up level. He stares forward like he's sure I'm getting on behind him.
Aww, who am I kidding? Of course I'm getting on.
I lift my leg and cautiously slide in behind him, keeping distance between our bodies. He peers over his shoulder at me, waiting for me to settle in deeper. With his hands on the handlebars, the arch of his shoulders seems endless, and I'm staring at an old rock tee shirt. I'm not even sure who it is, but it's worn thin and barely hides the muscles in his back.
In order to lift my feet, I'll have to hold onto him or I'll fall off. I slip my hands around his waist and lock them in the front by his navel. He doesn't stop looking back until I lean forward and press my body to his back. My feet find their place on the foot pegs. He closes his eyes and his head bows down. His chest expands with a sigh, he raises his head, and starts the engine.
Everything about him is hard and masculine. The rumble of his bike, the scent of soap and cotton coming off him, the way he sits comfortably in the seat, and the ease with which he turns the bike around and accelerates down the street. I hold on tight, pretending I'm not impressed with how hard his abs feel against my wrists and how perfectly my front fits to his back.
I like this. Too much.
I can never have it. My father and brother would never approve of Foster or me riding on his bike.
By the time we cross over the East River, and the stench of the city changes to the salty ocean air, I've forgotten to care what my dad or Donnie would think. I've forgotten Rocco's horrible attack. I love being on the back of Foster's bike, pressing my hands to his hard stomach and hugging him from behind, letting him guide the way, and enjoying the rough bite of the wind. This trip home from the Bronx will always be the most memorable experience of my life.
I'm not sure how he knows which way to go, but he chooses the right turn onto the Long Island Expressway. We pass under tree-lined canopies, and the moon guides the way into the quiet and secluded resort town of the Hamptons.
"It's in Bridgehampton." I speak to him for the first time on our ride. It was too loud and windy before, but he stops at a light and I break the silence. He nods and heads the correct direction again.
I tell him the last few turns to get to my family's summer home and he stops at the bottom of the driveway.
My legs ache and my heart is sad when I climb off the back of his bike. I hand him his helmet and he holds it under one arm. The hardest part is saying goodbye to his denim jacket. It's been like a friend, buffering me from the wind all the way home.
"Keep the jacket."
"Oh no. I…"
"Keep it. Looks good on you." The corner of his mouth turns up in an adorable grin.
"Thank you."
"Welcome." He says it casually like it was no problem for him to fight a guy off me, drive me all the way out here, and give me his jacket.
I wish this wasn't goodbye. I want him to come inside and have something to eat and drink, but I can't do that without causing a scandal I'll never live down.
"I'm having a party." It came from my mouth before I could stop myself, but now that it's out there, I'm going with it. "Next weekend. You should come." I might completely lose my cool if he shows up, but it would be so exciting.
"I'm not exactly a party in the Hamptons kind of guy." He grins, but it's bittersweet. He's putting himself down, referring to the class difference between us.
It's so stupid that we can't make everyone feel welcome. Why do we have to have curated guest lists and strategic invitation timing? Why does money create such boundaries between people who want to be friends? In a brief moment of rebelliousness, I stick to my guns. "I'd really like you to come. Next Saturday. It's a pool party."
His eyes widen and his mouth turns down. He sits back on his seat and looks at me with eyes a thousand meters deep. "Pool parties in the Hamptons are on my avoid at all costs list."
I want to fight him, but he grabs his helmet roughly and jerks it on his head, creating a barrier between us.
Now I feel stupid. Of course the Unstoppable Foster Dunham wouldn't come to my elitist pool party in the Hamptons. He's much too good for that. He's too human. Too kind and much too gorgeous to be seen with the likes of my family's circles.
