Page 30 of Virgin Skin

He shrugs. “No clue. My phone is in my saddle bag. I just had to make a quick pit stop at Basket Case Bikes to pick up an engine valve and spotted you.” I brace for him to ask what the hell happened with Piston and why I’m walking home instead ofon the back of his Harley on my way to Jag’s place like we talked about twenty minutes ago, but he just jerks his head towards the open seat behind him. “Get on.”

It’s not like I have anything better to do for the rest of the night. I brace against his shoulders and swing my leg over to settle on the seat. Jag revs his engine and then guns it, peeling away from the sidewalk with screeching tires.

“Shit,” I mutter, grabbing the back of his leather jacket as he flips the bird at any and all traffic laws on his way out of town.

The cold wind whips at my face and I hunch down a little so his helmet will block the worst of it. Businesses and houses turn into corn fields, and eventually Jag turns down a heavily wooded road. The trees block out the last of the fading daylight, plunging us into eerie darkness. The next turn seems like an unpaved side road at first, but then the trees give way to broken-down cars and mountains of scrap metal. We slow to a stop in front of a small single-story house that looks like it’s seen better days. But I don’t even have a house—hell, I barely have a bedroom of my own—so who am I to judge?

We hop off the bike and Jag pulls off his helmet.

“You want anything? Whiskey? A joint? Some poppers for the road?” he asks.

I open and close my mouth, trying to work out a response to such a weird offer.

“I’m just kidding,” he says, still totally stone faced. “I don’t share my weed.”

Finally, his expression cracks into a teasing grin and I chuckle.

“I’m good. Thanks.”

He nods, then strides over to flip a switch on the outside of the garage. Floodlights illuminate the yard around us brighter than daylight. I blink against the sudden shock of the blinding lights, letting my eyes adjust.

There’s a high-pitched chittering and the sound of gravel being scattered, and seconds later a squirrel bursts out of the bush next to the garage and runs right towards Jag. When it’s close, it launches itself into the air, latching on to the fabric of his pants and scrambling up him like a tree.

I yelp and jump back.

“Shit, is it rabid?” More importantly, what exactly is my duty here? Am I expected to grab a possibly rabid rodent to save a guy I barely know, even if he is a pretty chill dude?

Jag throws his head back and laughs, reaching into his pocket as the squirrel stops to perch on his shoulder.

“He asks an important question, Fuzz. We haven’t had you tested recently,” he says solemnly, pulling a shelled peanut out of his pocket and offering it to the squirrel.

I let out a relieved breath, my shoulders sagging. “He’s your pet?”

“Pet, furry freeloader, nuisance, take your pick.”

I extend my hand slowly, so I don’t startle him, and the little guy eyes me while he nibbles on his treat.

“Hey, fella.” I greet him in a soothing voice. He flicks his tail and chitters again, dropping the remnants of the peanut shell, some of them clinging to Jag’s jacket.

“He’s friendly,” Jag assures me.

Sure enough, the squirrel happily jumps off his shoulder onto my outstretched arm and scurries up. He darts from one shoulder to the other, then down my body and into the house through a doggy door.

“That’s fucking cool. Where’d you get him?” I ask.

“Tree blew over last spring and his nest was in it. His siblings didn’t make it, and I tried putting him back in another tree, hoping his mom would come back, but she never did. He kind of adopted me when he realized I had the food and warmth and allthat good shit.” The taunting, sarcastic smile I’ve seen on him all day turns softer as he talks about his pet.

“That’s cute.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I’m adorable. Anyway, let’s get that car for you.”

I follow him over to the garage. He opens it and we go inside.

“I should have the keys around here somewhere, just give me a minute.” He starts pulling various boxes and storage containers off of the steel shelves that line the back wall.

I lean against his workbench and take in the artful chaos of the space. There’s a half-disassembled Yamaha that I eye. Obviously, a car is more practical with winter right around the corner, but damn would it be nice to get another bike. I walk over to it and kneel down to check out the pieces of the engine scattered across the floor. The frame itself still looks like it’s in great shape. A few scratches and dings, but nothing that couldn’t be easily fixed.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Jag says.

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