Page 7 of Rolling Thunder

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. That shit is dangerous.”

She downed about half her beer.

“Maybe you already know a little something about that.”

She took another gulp.

“Let’s go visit the jukebox,” she interjected, desperate to get this date, or whatever it was, back on the rails. “But I already know there’s no Allman Brothers in there, just this new country crap.”

“Girl after my own heart. You know your way around a motorcycle and like my favorite band.” Her face flushed in response to his twinkling eyes. When he smiled, his eyes smiled. It made the beard and the Viking mohawk of wavy hair falling across his forehead look less menacing. He looked dashing, and she felt momentarily, dangerously flustered.

Feeling the need for a distraction, she scooted out of their booth and made her way to the jukebox. He followed her casually, and when she glanced at him, she saw he was scanning the room in the offhand way of someone always on alert for danger. Between browsing songs, she saw him suddenly laser-focus on someone, and his stance subtly changed from leaning toward the jukebox. He shifted his center of gravity, ready for action.

She followed his stare and saw two young cowboys who had had too much to drink. They were getting rowdy and looking for trouble, either with each other or whatever unlucky soul crossed their path. She had a built-in radar for such things too, and hers hadn’t even gone off yet when he’d zeroed in on it. He shifted again, still so smoothly that you’d have to be really looking at him to notice. This time, he stepped slightly in front of her, placing himself between her and the trouble brewing by the bar.

“Let’s go,” he said quietly. He was as calm as a glass ocean on a windless day. He managed to be on high alert yet appear perfectly disinterested, but she could sense the tension in him, and she knew he was ready for anything. She nodded and ducked behind him toward the door. If he was offering himself as a human shield, she’d take it. She didn’t look back, but she could feel him behind her. He pushed the door open for her and gestured for her to go ahead. Still, he managed to glance back once more without drawing any attention to himself to get one last read on the brewing barfight. Just as the door closed behind her, she heard the first bottle break.

Back out in the parking lot, he acted totally nonchalant. She wanted to ask him where he learned to read a room like that. Was he ex-military? He didn’t seem like a military guy, but he was definitely a guy who could handle himself.

She swung on behind him, relieved that he said nothing. To make up for having cut their drinks short, he took her for a glorious spin through the winding moss-draped live oak-lined back roads of Labelle. She’d always loved motorcycles, second only to horses. Canyon Bill had taken her for motorcycle rides as a child. She remembered his long blond ponytail whipping about and the wind stealing her breath. She remembered packs of dangerous-looking men roaring into the farm to see Bill. Even they throttled the bikes down out of respect for her grandmother’s horses.

Sometimes, he’d taken her along on his bike and she’d gotten a taste of the thrill of being part of the rolling thunder going down the highway.

She’d been on the back of a couple of other bikes in her life, but none had quite the effect that she got with Evan. The roar of the motor, the wind, settled something inside her. For once, the voices in her head and the ghosts that chased her couldn’t catch up. There was nothing but him, and she was calm. She was free.

He flexed a muscled forearm on the throttle and released a growl from the machine, easing it out onto State Road 31, and she watched the miles of pasture go by, dotted with cattle, ponds, white wading birds, palm trees, and live oaks. The faint scent of orange blossoms mixed with smoke from a prescribed burn like incense in the air.

After a time, the pastures gave way to houses, and then neighborhoods. They passed through Port Charlotte crossing Route 41 just as the sun was reaching its nadir. He slowed, approaching the bridge in El Jobean, where he stopped the bike just in time to watch the sun sizzle into the Gulf of Mexico. Florida sunsets never disappointed. People on the coast gathered at beaches just to watch them and clap when it was over. The sky was rich with strokes of peach, orange, and red over the calm purple water. There was a strip of washboard clouds in pastels. Gulls cried on the breeze. She swung off, and he half reclined on the bike, taking it in.

“This is just what I didn’t know I needed,” she said softly.

In response, he squeezed her hand. The silence was comfortable. In fact, it was perfect.

After a moment, she glanced at him and realized he wasn’t watching the sunset as much as he was watching her. He smiled a little and traced a stray wisp of hair out of her face.

“The light on your face is beautiful,” he said. And once again he stole her breath. He looked at her like she was the only beautiful thing for miles, despite the fact that they stood in front of a spectacular ocean sunset.

His touch was both thrilling and terrifying. She couldn’t look directly into those eyes. There was something in his gaze that laid her bare, like he saw her soul. Had anybody, ever? Had anybody really seen her? Was she imagining it?

She swiped windblown hair out of her face and glanced back to him.

“Come here,” he said.

She let him draw her in as he scooted to the back of his seat and patted for her to sit in front him. “Watch out, pipes are hot.”

She smiled a little. “I know.” She perched sideways in front of him, unable to meet his gaze at such close proximity. If she did, what would he see? What would she feel?

Being here with him was as different as her farm was from Trent’s dirty existence in Fort Myers. Her whole body felt raw with vulnerability, and every time he touched her, it was magnified. He reached up to her face, smoothing her hair back and nudging her chin to turn her to him. She glanced up and was taken in by those eyes under his ball cap.

Her insides tangled up and tripped over each other—her heart hit her lungs and missed a beat and stole her breath as he leaned in and kissed her. His arm around her back stopped an easy retreat. There was a promise of what he could do in that kiss, as much by the smooth way he had slipped his arm around her and turned her face to him as his lips on hers. He felt very, very capable. So much so that somehow a gentle kiss where he barely parted her lips felt like a hot, rich glimpse of what else could happen between them. She drew back slightly, as much as she could in his arms. He gave her the space to breathe again. That was the moment her body allowed her to feel the delayed panic of being overtaken by him.

“I hate to cut this short, but I’ve got to go do the night check on the new horse I have in for training,” she said, staring at her feet. She hadn’t counted on his touch being so addictive. This was just supposed to be some booze to unwind, and now she didn’t want it to end. This was just another thing she couldn’t have. Because of what he would think when he knew more about her, and because Trent would ruin it like he did everything.

“The man-eater?”

“Yeah.” She chuckled. “The man-eater. Except I think her real problem is that she’s been manhandled too much, so she’s just got a hair trigger.” His eyes met hers, and something unspoken passed between them. It had nothing to do with the horse. She regretted saying it because it applied to her too. The way he looked at her, she was pretty sure he knew it. There was an understanding in his gaze, and it was demolishing the meager resistance she had left.

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