Page 69 of The Price of Love

I’m beginning to think Nails is right. Storm has it bad.

“So you’re confident that she won’t overheat?” Shadow asks.

“You could ride her through the Sahara in August and be fine.” I smile. “That might be a slight exaggeration, but you get my point.”

“Can I get a hug?” Shadow asks.

“That’s the best payment there is,” I say as I open my arms. She gives me a genuine hug, not one of those polite pat-you-on-the-back hugs.

When we separate, Storm says, “Hey, I’m getting jealous over here. Don’t I get a hug, too?”

A huge smile breaks out on Shadow’s face. “Of course.” Before she can say more, Storm has Shadow wrapped in her arms. “I still wish you’d let me pay.”

If Shadow knew how much it cost, upward of seventy-five hundred dollars, she might not be so eager to offer. But I’ve been sworn to secrecy, so I’ll never tell.

“Ain’t happening,” Storm says as she hangs on to Shadow.

Shadow rests her head against Storm’s shoulder. “I appreciate it.”

I should disappear to my apartment and give them space, or maybe it’d be better to give them my key. Just as I’m about to leave, Shadow steps back.

“You did amazing work,” Storm says. “I’m gonna quick take Shadow around to the clubhouse, and then I haveta get her home.”

Shadow puts her hand on her hip. “I told you, I can make it home on my own.”

“Ain’t gonna happen.”

“But you’ll ride an hour and a half only to turn around and ride back. That doesn’t even make sense.”

Storm smiles. “Makes sense to me.”

CHAPTER 29

SHADOW

When Storm and I pull out of Black Briar Motors, my eyes sting. I know the repairs to my bike couldn’t have been cheap, no matter how casually Storm brushed it off.

My stomach knots. Is that what this is about? Repayment?

I scoff at myself. Right. She didn’t spend thousands to get me into bed when she has plenty of volunteers.

That thought does nothing to soothe me. It makes it worse.

I shake my head and force myself to breathe. I won’t ruin the moment with ghosts from my past.

Storm rides beside me, taking it slow through Cinder Ridge. People wave as we pass, and the small-town warmth catches me off guard.

Storm said it was once a thriving logging town, but now it’s in a struggle to survive since tourism hasn’t found it. Despite evidence that this town was forgotten, some of the plywood covering the windows is painted with murals, and plants line the sidewalk, disguising the neglect.

As we make our way north toward Highway 3, we pass an abandoned factory with a rusted sign still clinging to the brick. Cinder Ridge Paper Mill. It sits empty, waiting for the elements to devour it.

The winding, tree-choked country road we’re riding is beautiful, but there’s a chill in the air since very little sun peeks through. I notice patches of snow still under a few trees. During the winter, this road would be tough to drive, even in a car. It explains why there’s so many snowmobiles up this way.

When we drove into town earlier, I’d asked Storm why the roads were so winding here. At first she said because motorcycle riders loved curves. Then she’d explained that most of the smaller roads followed the curves of the forest. The fewer trees that needed cleared, the better. By how close the trees hug the road, the road builders carved out the smallest possible path.

Even after we left town, Storm kept her speed down and pointed out the various potholes and patches for me to avoid. I’d be afraid to ride it at night, but I bet the Thorns know every blemish on this stretch of road.

It’s amazing how different things are just a few hours from Saratoga. There’s something quieter and more peaceful here, yet also more desolate. With the mountains surrounding the area, the air is crisper. The journey felt like riding from civilization to God’s country. Being here now, Saratoga feels like a lifetime ago.