Page 80 of Grace

“I don’t want a sports bike, but something slow and peaceful. Something sexy. I’m new to this, too, baby… Maybe I should get a chopper. You know, the kind where the seat is lower than the handlebars, and the front fork is long.”

“I think I know what type you mean. The ones the bad guys ride in the movies.”

“I’m a good guy.”

His voice is deep and sexy. When he looks at me, goosebumps rise along my skin—his eyes burn with a heat that makes my skin tingle. Cyrus steps in front of me, cups my face in his hands, and kisses me gently, his eyes closed.

From the corner of my eye, I catch a shadow. Someone in a hoodie who, before disappearing into the darkness, mouths the words into the night:

“You’re mine, Grace!”

I shiver as I watch him turn and walk away, his steps slow and deliberate.

I don’t know how long I can keep lying to myself—and to Cyrus. Maybe I can hold on to the lie a little longer. I can live in denial. I can let myself enjoy our relationship reaching a new level. Then… I can face the horrible truth. I can face the fact that the past is repeating itself.

The only difference is that now I have to decide whether I want to fight my fate or finally accept it.

I am his.

Cyrus pushes a stack of colorful magazines under my nose while I’m sipping my caramel milk.

“What’s this?”

“Motorcycles, baby. Bikes.”

“I can see that. I thought the Pontiac was your sweetheart.”

“It is. But it doesn’t hurt to try something new from time to time.”

I’m turning the pages with a smile on my face, then I almost fall off my chair when I see a price tag. “They’re… expensive.”

“We don’t have to buy a new one,” he says, raking his fingers through his messy dark hair. He turns his chair around and rests his muscular arms on the backrest. “You can buy a used one for a quarter of the price. I’m only showing you these to get you familiar with them.”

“My legs are definitely going to tremble.”

“I like it when your legs tremble.”

The milk almost goes down the wrong pipe. My face burns red, and I smile awkwardly.

“Well… I think we have to get used to this new situation.”

“Meaning?” He takes a donut from the box and wolfs down the sticky dessert in two bites, powdered sugar falling onto his dark beard.

“Meaning that you sometimes make remarks like that.”

I smile softly, brush the sugar off his beard, then slip my finger into my mouth and lick off the sweetness.

“Mom called.”

His mom is a sensitive subject. Although much has changed since we last saw her. Maybe she’ll stop being so mean to me once she sees that things are moving in the right direction.

“When are we going?”

“Only I am going.”

“What?”

“I don’t want you to come.”