Page 24 of Marked By Tank
“Because the man who bought you is dead.”
I stare at him.
He says it like weather. Like fact. No pride. No apology.
“And men like that usually belong to other men,” he adds. “So we don’t stay put.”
I lick sugar off my thumb because my hands need something to do.
“Where are we going?”
His eyes hold mine.
“On the bike.”
Fear moves through me first.
Then memory.
The dark road. The engine under me. My arms wrapped around him because there was nothing else to hold on to. His body in front of mine, broad enough to block the whole world.
My pulse kicks once.
He sees the uncertainty on my face.
“You can ride with me,” he says, “or I can strap you to me and listen to you cuss me out for the next hundred miles.”
A startled sound slips out of me.
Not really a laugh.
Close enough that his mouth shifts again.
That same rough almost-smile.
Warm for half a second. Gone too fast.
“I’ll ride,” I say.
He nods once.
“Thought you might.”
And against all reason, against every smart instinct I have left, the thought of climbing onto that bike behind him does not feel like the worst thing in the world.
