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Chapter Thirty-Three
Nick
I couldn’t claim to have fallen in love before, so identifying what it was I felt and giving it a label wasn’t something I found easy to do. And, to be truthful, with me being a big bad-ass biker, even if I was in love, I probably wouldn’t want to admit it.
But I was able to identify pride.
And I was proud of having Peyton in my life.
I turned the corner and rolled up the street. Not in a million lifetimes would I have guessed I’d be doing what I was doing.
“Why won’t you just tell me?” she asked.
“Because it’s a surprise.”
“I think that’s chicken-shit,” she said.
I released the throttle and coasted down the street. “See the light blue one over there?”
She leaned forward and rested her chin on my shoulder. “The one with the big rock garden?”
“Yep.”
“What about it?”
“Brent Houseman lived there. We were buddies in high school.”
“You used to live around here?”
“Yep.”
“Cool”
The bike slowed to an almost stop, but I had half a block or so to go, so I rolled on a little throttle. “The yellow one over there was where Becky Tharp lived. She was a cheerleader. And, no, I didn’t bang her. She was a bitch.”
“Nice to know,” she said.
As we came closer, I felt nervous, and really, nothing made me nervous. Hell, I had walked into abandoned buildings that were filled with men who were armed and wanted to kill me, and I wasn’t as nervous as I was with her.
“See the white one there on the right?”
“Yep.”
“That’s where I grew up.”
Her grip on my waist tightened, and she leaned forward. “Really?”
“Yep.”
“Until when? When did you move out?”
I shifted into neutral and rolled to a stop in the middle of the street, thirty feet or so from the drive. The exhaust rumbled a low drone as it idled, echoing the sound of our arrival for all to hear.
“When I went to war, pretty much.”
“Oh wow. Where do your parents live now?”
I motioned toward the house. “Still live right there.”
