Page 4
So, for me to be riding on the back of a complete stranger’s bike, with someone chasing me…it’s like one of those movie openers that starts with, “I bet you’re wondering how I ended up here.”
My stomach flips like it’s on a rollercoaster as I cling to this biker for dear life. I squeeze my eyes closed because I don’t want to see the next curve that could take us out. But I open them almost immediately because, apparently, not knowing when the next bend of doom is approaching is worse.
“Oh my God,” I say, shouting above the wind as I wrap my arms more tightly around his waist. “Do we have to bend so much on the corners?”
I feel his abs move in time with his laughter. “It’s gravity or some shit. Can’t control it.”
I force myself to think about his response to take my mind off the free-falling, out-of-control feelings I’m grappling with. And I definitely need to stop thinking about the intimacy in the way we’re sitting. My thighs are spread around his, and the vibrations from the motorcycle ripple through me, causing highly inappropriate thoughts given I don’t know this man. “It’s centripetal force,” I yell. “An inertial reference frame caused by your body wanting to keep going straight while the bike turns. The lateral grip generated between the tires and tarmac stop the bike from sliding out.”
The biker glances over his shoulder. “Or we could just say it’s fun.”
I tighten my grip even further. “That’s not a word I’d use, but I’m grateful you didn’t leave me on the road.”
He places his hand over my joined ones and pats them twice as he slows the bike. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for a damsel in distress.”
I scoff at that. “I’ll accept the ‘distress’ part of that, but not the ‘damsel.’”
“Whatever you say, Indy.” As the bike assumes a much more reasonable speed, and the wind resistance drops, we don’t need to shout as much. And I certainly don’t need to hold on to him so tightly that the heat of his back warms my chest.
“It’s Della. Dr. Della Hart. I’m an assistant professor in wetlands ecology at Calusa Gulf University.”
“Sunny. Also known as Lucas Reed. Tail gunner for the Iron Outlaws Motorcycle Club. Where am I taking you?”
I think about my camper van that I left on the other side of the marsh, but I’m not going back in the dark. Plus, I have a motel room, because while I love my camper as a lab on the go, most nights, I just want a proper bed. And this man doesn’t need to be dragged into my mess. “I’m staying at the motel out by the grocery store. But if you just get me somewhere populated, I can find a cab or something.”
I glance over my shoulder behind me and see no lights. Plus, whoever was chasing me was on foot, and I’m on a bike, so my guess is they are a long way behind me.
For the first time since I realized someone had seen me collecting samples, I relax. Well, for me, this is relaxed: slightly elevated anxiety, a heart rate that never quite reaches rest, and a mind that is racing in permanent conflict between saving the wetlands and being terrified of getting caught up in something far worse than monkey bars and sporting injuries.
“I feel responsible for you now,” Sunny says. “I’m gonna make sure I get you back safely. And you can relax your thighs.”
As soon as I realize what he’s saying, I unclench them instead of squeezing him like he’s a watermelon and I’m in some thigh-crushing challenge.
He runs his hand along the side of my leg, squeezing occasionally, a move way too intimate for two people who just met on the road. “I’ll go a little slower so you can relax.”
Relax. That word haunts me. It’s my nemesis. My therapist says I should try to, but it’s as foreign a concept to me as cannibalism. When you are the product of two academically high-achieving parents who measured your every output from birth on a sliding scale of abject failure to their prodigious expectation, relaxing is a luxury you can ill afford.
I look down at Sunny’s hand. There is dirt beneath his fingernails and ink everywhere else. I can’t imagine how much that must have hurt. I hate needles. I even struggle on the rare occasion I need a shot at the dentist or have to give blood. It’s the reason I don’t have any ink of my own. Heck, I don’t even have my ears pierced.
His dirty blond, wavy hair is cut in such a way that I can see the ink creeping up above his shirt collar. People often comment that I must have paid a fortune in student loans to get my degrees, but I bet this man has paid just as much to a tattoo artist somewhere.
And I bet no one questions his life choices like they do mine, at least not to his face.
Although, given the feel of him beneath my hands, and the size of him, and the way his body blocks the wind from me, I doubt anyone questions him about anything. They probably take one look at this man-mountain, and regardless of the legality of his actions, just step out of the way and let him continue.
Surprisingly, I lean into the unexpected lull of the bike. I’m not one for whimsy, but the sky is a poetic midnight blue, the stars bright. I even rest my forehead against Sunny’s back and let my eyes close as the adrenaline that flooded my body earlier fades.
When we pull into the motel lot, I’m actually feeling tired, so much so, I yawn as Sunny parks his bike.
“Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Indy,” Sunny says as he offers me his hand to climb off the bike. And I’m glad he did, because my legs wobble when my feet first touch the ground.
“Oh my gosh,” I say as I firmly grip his hand.
He steadies me. “Gets easier with a bit more experience.”
“Why ‘Indy’?” I ask, thinking of the name he just called me.
He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s a bit badass, being out in the dark, being chased by men. Reminded me of that scene when Indiana Jones comes running out of the brush yelling, ‘Start the ‘plane.’ Except you were effectively telling me to start the bike. Even though it was already started. Fine, I’ll stop talking because you get my drift.”
