Page 68 of Tony

I turn my head and look over my shoulder at him.

“No?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Yes,” he repeats, smiling. And then he ties the skull ribbon on the end of my braid.

I stand up and turn around, my hand automatically reaching for the long braid behind my back and pulling it over my shoulder so I can see the bow he tied.

I look at him. And when our eyes meet, I think I blush seventeen shades of scarlet.

“Ready?” he asks, getting to his feet. He’s wearing light blue jeans with a few rips along his upper right thigh. There’s an old grease stain on the other leg, faded now from being bleached out. And if a stranger were looking at it, they wouldn’t know it was grease.

But I know it’s grease. Because these are his favorite jeans. And that t-shirt he’s wearing, the white one with the black Shrike Bikes raven and skull logo on the front, that’s his favorite shirt too. And the boots on his feet—not the typical black ones he wears every day, but the old, scuffed-up brown ones he reserves only for bike rides—those are his favorite boots.

His blond hair is tousled and just a tiny bit too long. He has an appointment to get it cut next week. I know this. I know this because I made that appointment for him. So right now his hair is just the right length. The way it hangs over his face just enough to make his blue eyes a little darker than they really are takes his charming good looks to a slightly more mysterious level.

I nod. And that’s all I’m able to do. Because I am suddenly at a loss for words.

He nods back, slips his matte-black helmet over his head and points to mine. Which I have been holding this entire time.

I slip it over my head and he adjusts my chin strap. Then he walks over to his bike, straddles it, kicks back the stand, and kicks it until the engine roars. Filling the quiet, quaint Mountain Avenue neighborhood with the promise of danger.

He waits for me on the idling bike, looking at me with… I don’t know what that look is.

Longing?

Desire?

Love?

All of the above?

His shoulders look a little bit tense. Like he’s waiting for something bad to happen. Waiting for me to change my mind, maybe?

But it’s too late for that.

And when I swing my leg over the back end of the seat and settle up against his back, he reaches around, grabs my hands, and clasps them together over the tight muscles of his stomach.

I grab fistfuls of his t-shirt as he eases the bike down the driveway and his shoulders relax in the knowledge that he finally has my full attention.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - TONY

Soshee Ameci drives a ten-year-old white Toyota Corolla. A true piece of shit. And I can’t explain it, but her car choice makes me kinda love her.

Back home I drive a 1969 notchback Corvette Stingray in Le Mans blue. It’s a nice fucking car. My rental is nothing special, though. Just a standard sedan in gold.

So when we’re standing in the parking lot in the back of the theatre and she asks me if I want to drive, I tell her no.

She makes a face at her car, then looks back at me. “Are you sure? My car might break down. It’s been known to do that.”

I chuckle. “Yeah. I’m sure. Your car looks like it’s up for an adventure.”

“Hmm.” She smiles at me. “Are you up for an adventure, Tony Dumas?”

I nod. “One hundred percent invested in this adventure. Nothing’s gonna go wrong. Trust me.”

She giggles and waggles a warning finger at me. “You’re just tempting fate now, buddy.”