Page 63 of Bad Seed

“Yes. Just thinking. Have you ever ridden on a motorcycle?”

“Yes, but not steering. Just a passenger, why?”

“Put on some warm clothes, and boots if you brought some. Gloves if you brought some. I have an older biker jacket from my high school years, and yes, I’m one of those men who doesn’t throw anything away. It should just about fit you. If you’re game, I’ll smuggle you out of the hotel through the staff entrance. Nobody will know who you are with the biker’s helmet on, and with a little speed and some fresh air, we’ll blow the cobwebs out of your pretty head.”

She swung her legs off the side of the sofa. “Are you serious?”

“With you, always.”

She shivered. “I’m game.”

“Good. Get changed. I’ll gas up the Harley and see you in about fifteen minutes.”

Harley was already running down the hall to the bedroom to change clothes as he ended the call. She peeled down to underwear and was patting herself on the back for packing her old cowboy boots. She’d arrived in black leather pants, and she was going to escape in them, too. The warmest shirts she’d brought were sweatshirts she lounged in. She grabbed the one without holes. She wasn’t wearing makeup, but she put some moisturizer on her face against the cold, grabbed her phone, her best leather gloves, the key card to her room, and her wallet, and went to the living room to wait.

Her heart was pounding, and her headache was already receding. This felt like a turning point. She was at a crossroads in her life, and she was choosing the road to him.

Then came the knock.

She checked to see who it was, and then opened the door, and there he stood. Shiny black helmet. Black leather pants and a silver studded jacket. Well-worn biker boots, carrying a leather jacket and another helmet. He flipped up the visor on his helmet and winked, then slipped inside.

The hair was standing up on the back of her neck, and all she could do was stare. The pastry chef had turned into the Terminator, and if she hadn’t knownwho was beneath that helmet and black leather, she would have been running.

“Are you ready to do this?” he asked.

His voice pulled her off the ledge of panic. It was still the Brendan she knew. The one who’d hugged away the sadness she’d felt the other night.

“Jacket first,” he said, and held it out. She slipped her arms into the sleeves as he pulled it up over her shoulders, then turned her around. “Inner pockets have zippers. Phone, key card, wallet in those and zip, then we’ll fasten the front.”

Harley was focused on instructions and missed the look in his eyes, which was just as well. He wasn’t crossing any line, but he also wasn’t going to hide the growing feelings. As soon as she buckled and zipped all the pockets, he handed her the helmet.

“These have linked communication features. Bluetooth. We can talk to each other over the built-in mics while we ride.”

She slipped it on and then stood while he buckled the chin strap.

He gave her a pat on the shoulder and a thumbs-up. After a quick look out in the hall, they headed toward a staff elevator. She put her gloves on in the elevator and then they took the back way out of the hotel without a hitch.

The motorcycle was parked outside the door. It was huge like him, and decked out in black and silver like him, and she felt like Cinderella about to climb into thegilded carriage and ignored the fact that Cinderella’s carriage had begun its life as a pumpkin. But this bike was no pumpkin. It was the real deal, and so was the man astride it.

All of a sudden, his voice was in her ear. “Behind me, Sunshine, and hang on.”

She felt like giggling. She swung her leg over the bike, settled into the seat, and slid her arms around his waist. When the engine fired up, she felt that rumble all the way to her soul.

He toed up the kickstand and they were gone.

Brendan took all the backstreets to get them out of town, and once he reached the highway that led up the mountain, he gunned it. He heard her gasp and then laugh, and that’s when he knew she was going to like this ride.

***

Barely a mile up the mountain, the last remnants of Harley’s headache were gone. Riding with this man was like nothing she’d ever known. His size alone gave her a sense of safety—like she was flying, but sheltered by the wall of his body. And every time they passed a mailbox on the side of the road, that deep raspy voice of his was in her ear, calling off names of those who lived there and their relationship to him. It was a roll call of Pope Mountain, and for the first time in her life, she became aware of the continuity of a people to a place.

As they passed a mailbox with a red cardinal painted on the side, he said, “My mom, Shirley Pope, lives up that road. It’s our homeplace.”

Harley heard a gentleness in his voice as they flew past, and thought of her parents, living life but living it apart. Always apart. It was no wonder she had no sense of roots. And then the timbre of his voice rose.

“Look, Harley. To your right. A fox slipping through the underbrush.”

“I see it!” she cried.

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