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With the backpack slung overmy shoulder, I passed the kitchen where Cook was trying to coax Vivi into taking her pills. She was as reluctant as she was before, and I wasn’t about to try to get someone to take drugs she didn’t want. Strange that Cook would after he defended me against the doctors back at the recovery house.
Crazy was one thing. Everyone had their own flavor of crazy, but I had no love for numbing it to make everyone else happy. Then again, maybe Vivi’s pills were different than the sedatives.
My opinion didn’t matter, though. I didn’t know how to care for anyone, me included, but Cook did. I had to believe he knew what was best for her. I moved along and waited outside, dragging my gaze up and down the street with houses spaced at even intervals. The homes sat close together with small yards consisting of gravel and desert shrubbery.
The rows were perfect. Pure. Even the couple walking in the distance with a stroller and dog seemed like a picture of all that was good in the world. The neighborhood and the people here were so... normal, yet it made me feel kinda gross.
I hugged myself as though I could erase the taint my presence cast over this quaint little neighborhood.
I didn’t belong.
Sitting outside Vivi’s house, Cook’s beat-up Bronco waited. It was used until the shine had dulled, like me. I had ridden in it once, at least. Maybe twice, if that’s how I ended up at the recovery house, but if so, I didn’t remember. There wasn’t much to love about it. The rattle I could tolerate, but the inside was too confining, like one of Signora’s black SUVs with tinted windows. At least the Bronco had clear glass.
Beside the ancient blue and white thing waited a gleaming black motorcycle. My thighs chaffed as I approached and ran my fingers over the silver wings painted on the tank.
With a grim or frustrated expression, I couldn’t be sure which, Cook marched out of the house. The door slammed shut behind him, and I flinched. He wore his leather vest with patches on the back and down the front breast panels. A small emblem on the front breast made me recall the larger patches on the back. A skull. Wings. The Ridge MC arced across the top, and a few more things I couldn’t recall details for.
I remembered the feel of all that leather and the patches under my fingers.
Cook carried a leather jacket, which he opened for me to slide into.
“It’s huge on you.” He zipped it up.
The frown he’d been wearing when he skipped down the steps flipped into a wry smile as he stared at how I swam in the thing.
He pushed my hair back and handed me a hair tie. “We’re riding.”
“What?” I gaped at him, my hand pointing at the bike. “On that?”
Cook cocked a half smile in my direction. “Is this your first time on a bike, Maddie?” Taking a step closer until he was towering over me and I could smell cinnamon on his breath, he lowered his voice. “Are you a motorcycle virgin?”
I gasped. There wasn’t anything I’d consider virgin about myself, but his nearness left me numb and speechless. He ran his thumb down my jawline and turned to the bike.
“No need for the Bronco,” said Cook. “’Sides, riding is faster and easier and way more fun.” He picked up the backpack I had dropped and shoved it into a saddlebag.
Cook swung his leg over his motorcycle, his long lean body takingup most of the seat. The bike sat at an angle, and he pushed it upright, then kicked the stand back with his boot. The motorcycle itself was chrome on black and more black. The leather seats had white stitching around the edge, but were otherwise supple and, yes, black, as was the tank and the fringe hanging from the handlebars.
He pushed a button, and the beast growled. It rumbled to life, the chrome tailpipes backfiring, and after a few seconds, the engine purred. My imagination drifted; my curiosity grew. How would all that power feel between my legs?
“Mount up,” he said with a smirk, standing with the machine balanced between his legs.
I toddled forward, unsure.
Cook pointed to a peg sticking out from the side. “You’ll step there and swing on behind me.”
I hesitated only briefly then moved to Cook’s side, ready to mount. Something stalled me though. I could admire his bike for what it was, but riding it... I wasn’t sure how this would go. Before I could step on the peg, Cook slipped the helmet on my head and fastened the buckle under my chin, but he didn’t wear one.
Small next to the bike and big man, I felt like a kid all over again with Daddy standing at the back of my Barbie bike with the banana seat. The very one that he’d removed my training wheels from that morning. I blinked at Cook until my vision cleared. He was giving me a new first.
He released me, his calloused fingers brushing my cheeks. His eyes lingered on my lips, and then they were gone.
Maybe I imagined his pause.
He slid his hands into leather gloves and dropped them to the handlebars. “Let’s go.”
Bracing myself, I swung a leg over the back of the motorcycle and slowly lowered my tush to the seat. The motorcycle’s backseat wasn’t big or comfortable, but I liked the fact that the only thing I had to grip onto was Cook.
He reached back for my hand, circling his strong fingers around my wrist and then latched it in front of his body. I snaked my other arm around him, his taut muscles like brick under his shirt. I pressedmy front to his back, resting my head on his shoulder.
