Page 22 of Red Flag Bull

“Because I’m a shitty human,” I admit and clamp my jaw tight when it threatens to tremble.

He steps back with a sigh. “What happened?”

My throat twists tight with emotion, and it’s too constricted for me to speak. I shake my head and stare at the ground, so I don’t have to see the disappointment I know will be written all over his face.

“Have you eaten?” His voice is softer than I expect, and I don’t fucking feel worthy of such leniency. I shake my head and hug myself more tightly.

“Get on,” he says, pulling his backpack on backwards, so it sits against his chest and leaves more room behind him. For me. He’s found it in his heart to give a shit, and I don’t want to fuck that up, but I’m terrified I’m going to.

I forgot how wonderful it is, to have someone care. For them to stalk you and drag you from the bushes. To demand to know why you’re hiding. To tell their guard to unhand you. To rearrange their fucking motorbike specially, to make sure there’s room for you.

“Hurry up,” he says when I don’t move. “Before I change my mind.”

I climb on and perch precariously on the slightly higher passenger seat, to await further instruction. I’ll do anything he asks, because even when he hates me, it feels like he still cares.

He looks at the helmet in his hands. “It’s going to be too big,” he says, before pulling it down over my head, “but it’s better than nothing.”

Nothing is what he’ll have, so that I don’t have to go without. So I’ll be safer.

It’s never been hard to fall in love with him, and although he’s avoiding my gaze, I can’t pull mine from his face. He tightens the chin strap as far as it will go, and the fit isn’t too bad. He gives it another wiggle, to test it, and then gives a muffled grunt before climbing onto his bike in front of me and starting the engine.

It purrs to life between my legs, and the past comes screaming back to my loins. I haven’t ridden since that summer, and I forgot how it felt to straddle raw power while I clung to brute strength. Pure ecstasy. It kept me wet and ready for Jason to take me anytime he wanted.

I lean forward and wrap my arms around him as we take off. I am so easily seduced by his warmth and hard muscle. I’m going to soak through my fucking jeans and mark his seat for him.

We make it one block, before he pulls to the side of the road in a sharp stop.

He sits quietly a moment, then breaks the link of my laced hands, so he can escape my arms and get off the bike. He stares down at me with fire in his eyes, and I shrink under his glare.

I did something wrong.

Jason reaches behind me and tugs at some part of his bike. I look back, to see the small handle he’s made appear at the base of the passenger seat.

“Hold that,” he rumbles and waits for me to do so, before he reclaims his seat.

Apparently, my new position is a punishment for enjoying myself too much. To hold on behind me, I have to lean away from him, and that’s the way he wants it.

I can ride with him, but I can’t touch him. This isn’t like old times. All is not forgiven.

Got it.

9

JASON

It’s three in the morning, so the only thing open is a seedy fucking dive bar.

Mandi follows behind me, obedient as fuck, because she wants something from me.

What, though?

The hate-fuck I owe her has been building for two decades, so I don’t like her chances of survival. If she wants to die, she can find another way.

I sneak a quick glance at her and feel guilty as hell for thinking it, because she looks almost as suicidal as she did when I first saw her as a teenager.

Fuck it.

I order an orange soda and shove a grease-stained menu in front of her when she joins me at the bar. She’s a tight little tangle of nervous energy as she looks around, and when she glances from the three available choices of fried snacks written on the card next to my soda, the worry lines around her eyes intensify.

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