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He shuddered slightly, jostling my body with him, then settled into the seat. Cook planted his boots on the pavement and pushed the bike backward with his thick legs. My parted thighs wrapped around his back, and a secret smile stretched across my lips. This position was definitely something I could get used to.
From my position, I could turn my head and whisper anything into his ear, or I could just cling to him as we sailed down the highway.
I didn’t get a chance to speak before he settled in and kicked some other thing down on the side of the bike. He cleared his throat, smirked back at me, and then took off. I had to grab him hard or fall off the back.
I squealed, and a laugh echoed in his chest—a rumble like the bike’s.
We weren’t moving fast yet, but the sensation was something altogether different than I’d ever felt. A rush went through my blood as he worked the things on the handlebars and the levers under his boot. He started off slow on the neighborhood street, and the roar of the engine cut off any conversation before it started.
As we veered onto the highway, he turned his head to the side and yelled, “Hang tight.”
Obeying the order, I gripped onto him, and he really opened up the engine. My hair whipped out the back of the helmet and I blinked against the wind. I used Cook’s body to shield the blast and wished I had sunglasses. He, at least, wore wraparounds.
The vibrations moved up my body, turning my bones to jelly.
The air twisted around me as we wound down the highway. While he originally stayed in the right lane, like he was waiting for me to adjust to the pull of the wind, he now rolled the throttle, urging his bike faster. It let out a beastly roar and thrust us forward. He dodged between the cars and swerved across the lines, leaning left and then right before straightening the bike.
I lost my breath with every lean, but soon learned to follow the motions of his body. He leaned right and so did the bike. When I leaned right too, the turn seemed faster, tighter. Better.
So, I tried it on the left side too. When he sped through the nextcurve, a delighted squeal escaped my chest.
The world blurred in my peripheral vision, so I faced forward over Cook’s shoulder, holding onto him for dear life.
Fuck, this was a good feeling... one in which I could lose myself and every care in the world.
Everything felt new. The purr under my body. Cook’s touch. The wind in my face. Even the rumbling engine was perfect. For once, things were quiet in my mind. As much as memories wanted to scream and cry, the ride silenced them.
This was freedom.
Fucking finally, something set me free!
As I tried to slip my hands away from Cook, sure I could fling out my arms and fly like a bird, he grabbed my arms and kept them in place.
He growled, “What the shit do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m flying,” I said.
Couldn’t Cook feel this? The freedom. The everlasting fulfillment of belonging to no one else. Of soaring. The world opened to reveal something new, and we were hurtling toward it.
“Hold on, Maddie, or I’ll have to tie you down.”
Tie me down? What?
I lost the thought along with my breath when he pushed us forward again.
Faster. Nothing could hold us back.
After a while, an hour maybe, Cook pulled off the highway. He glided the motorcycle quite gracefully, the pipes sputtering with relief that he’d let off the gas. We rolled to a stop in the middle of nowhere. The Arizona desert. Cacti and grass poked up around a rundown house covered in dirt. Weeds had overgrown the sidewalk to the house. Cook kicked the stand down on the motorcycle and offered a hand to help me off.
I slipped down, eyeing the view. Was this where he thought it was safe? Had anyone been here in the last decade? Vivi had said they once lived somewhere else. This had to be it, but I hated the thought of himliving somewhere so dingy.
Off the motorcycle, I opened the saddlebags and retrieved his old camera. Twisting at the waist, I snapped a picture of the house. Click. Cook’s head rotated around to face me at the sound the camera made. The look on his face made it seem like he’d been slapped. I lowered the camera as blood rushed into my cheeks.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“You didn’t have any pictures of this house in your photo album,” I said in a weak voice, tucking the camera behind my back.
“It’s not necessary.” His Adam’s apple bobbed, but the venom in his voice turned to something easier. Resignation? Acceptance? “Come on.”
