Page 16 of Revv

I try not to look too pleased about that, but knowing me, I fail, probably.

My fingers linger near the strap for one second longer than they should before I finally drop my hands. “Sure thing, Mama.”

The ride starts with Cece acting like touching me might give her a disease.

She sits behind me stiff as hell, hands barely at my sides, thighs hovering like that inch of space is saving her from something.

I give her maybe thirty seconds of that pride before I pull out of the lot and hit the street. The bike rumbles under us, smooth and low, and the second I give it a little more gas, her arms snap around my waist.

There she is.

I smile into the night.

Tampa stretches out around us, all humid air, palm shadows, glowing signs, and warm pavement. I don’t ride crazy with her on the back. Fast enough to make her hold on, yeah, but not fast enough to scare her. People love calling me reckless because they don’t know the difference between taking a risk and being a dumbass.

I know my bike.

I know the road.

And right now, I know exactly how close she’s pressed against my back.

At first, she’s tense. Fighting it. Fighting me and the fact that every turn makes her grip tighten. But little by little, she settles. Her chest warms my back. Her helmet bumps my shoulder when she looks around. Her hands stop clutching like she’s trying not to die and start holding like maybe, just maybe, she trusts me not to kill her.

That shit hits harder than it should.

At a red light, her fingers flex against my stomach.

I look down.

My hoodie sleeves swallow her hands, and something possessive kicks hard in my chest.

Mine looks good on her.

I ride through it before it can get worse.

When we hit her street, she taps my side and points. I pull up in front of a small house with warm porch lights and flowers near the steps. Soft and sweet. Way too cute for a woman who threatened my teeth and called me community service.

I kill the engine.

For a second, neither of us moves.

I don’t point it out.

See? Growth.

Instead, I climb off first, pull my gloves off with my teeth, then tug my helmet free and hang it on the handlebar. The night air hits my face, warm and damp, but Cece stays right where she is, sitting on my bike like she belongs there and hates that I might notice.

I notice.

Obviously.

I step in front of her and reach for her helmet. “Let me get that.”

She huffs, but she doesn’t stop me when I undo the strap beneath her chin. My knuckles brush her throat, and her whole body goes still for half a second.

There it is.

I take the helmet off slowly, and her hair falls loose around her face, messy from the ride. Her cheeks are flushed. Her lips are parted. Her eyes are too bright.