Page 17 of Fake Crown

“Yes, but god isn’t the one I need to be listening right now.” I give him a pointed look.

“From my lips to my own ears? I told you last night I value you.”

I sigh as we approach the front-facing desk of the scooter rental place. “I’ll know when the right part of you perks up and takes notice.”

Brent digs the scooter voucher out of his back pocket and passes it to the man behind the counter.

“One scooter? Who’s the driver?” the rental agent asks.

I raise my hand at the same time as Brent says, “Me.”

“Oh, no.” I frown. “I grew up driving these things around Bellerive. I’m not trusting an amateur with my health and safety.”

“I’m bigger than you.” He scans me. “Much bigger than you. Makes sense for me to be driving.”

“Actually—” The attendant holds up a finger.

“That’s bullshit. I’m not accepting any patriarchal ‘I am man, hear me roar’ arguments.” I put my hands on my hips. “The best driver should be on the agreement.”

“I’m not having you drive me around.” Brent mirrors my stance.

“You can rent a second bike,” the attendant says. “Or I can put you both on the rental for ten dollars.”

Brent fishes his wallet out of his bag and throws a ten on the counter. “We can both be on it.”

We hand over our licenses, and I grab a helmet off the rack. Brent tries on three before he finds one that fits. Amateur.

The guy brings out the scooter, one with enough power for the two of us, and he takes Brent through the basics. I stuff my bag under the seat, and I take Brent’s and use the bungee cord to secure it in the carrier at the back.

“I’ll drive first,” Brent says.

“Whatever,” I say. Unless he’s well versed in driving on the opposite side of the road to North America and familiar with Bermuda’s traffic laws, it’ll be a short ride before I take over.

He climbs on, and I get on behind him. Instead of keeping my space, I wrap myself around him as close as I can get.

“Is that necessary?” Brent asks over his shoulder.

I wink at the attendant who is standing beside us. “Very necessary.”

The attendant smothers his grin. “Have fun!”

“We will,” I say. “Come on, Brent. Hit the throttle.”

He turns his wrist, and we fly forward with a jerk. Turns out holding on this tight was very necessary.

“Whoa,” Brent says with a chuckle.

“Whenever you want me to drive,” I call out in an overly sweet voice.

“I got this,” Brent says. “I got this.”

We inch up to the exit from the rental place where the parking lot connects with the first main road. It’s a busy one, and I wonder whether I should have been more stubborn about driving. Despite Brent’s bravado, I have zero confidence in his driving skills.

When we sit at the intersection of the road and the parking lot while three perfectly good openings to merge into traffic pass us by, I tap his shoulder.

“I grew up driving roads like these. There’s zero shame in letting me drive.”

“We won’t crash?” Brent asks.