Page 18 of A Little Broken

I’ve always loved my bike. Ever since the guys introduced me to motorcycles, I’ve been obsessed. The rumble of the enginebetween my thighs. The buzzing of the wind. The quiet in the chaos.

Tatum’s thighs squeeze the seat, her knees pressing against my outer legs before her hands disappear from my waist and she spreads her arms wide. My panic lasts less than a beat until I look over my shoulder, finding her head tilted toward the pitch black sky. The shield covers her expression, but I don’t need to see her face to know she’s smiling. I’d bet my life savings it’s a real one, too. Not the flirty facade she used on me to sneak into the venue earlier. Not the smartass one she wore as armor when she ran into Dodge and the rest of the band after the show. Nah. This one’s for her. And for some reason I can’t explain, my chest puffs up in pride. I put it there. That smile. Me.

Maybe I’m not a fuck up after all.

Scanning the winding road ahead of us, I slowly drift across the center line, treating the entire road as our playground because in a way, it is. It’s only me and her and the night sky. The gentle breeze. The sprawling pavement. I sway us from left to right like it’s a dance, and we’re the only two people in the world who matter.

And maybe, for this moment, we are.

5

TATUM

Okay, so maybe I have a thing for motorcycles. The thought sweeps through me grudgingly. It shouldn’t. There’s nothing wrong with motorcycles or the men who own them. Or at least, not in a literal sense. Even so, I can’t get my sister’s voice out of my head.

“Us Taylor girls.” My sister shakes her head and attempts to give me a reassuring smile. “Seems we’re suckers for bikers.”

The memory flashes through my mind before I can stop it.

It was a few years ago. We were driving somewhere. Me, Rory, my sister, her friends. We were all piled into the car on our way to a girls’ night I wanted nothing to do with. Some biker started an impromptu game of Rock, Paper, Scissors at the stoplight. By some miracle, he did the impossible. He managed to make me smile for the first time in what felt like forever.

I was so lonely back then. Okay, I’m still lonely, but I’m better at hiding it now. I’m also better at finding distractions. Just like the man in front of me. He’s definitely a distraction, and a pretty one, too. If only he didn’t have a bike. The less similarities I have with my good ol’ sister, the better. And if she knew I was pressed up against some hunky badboy like Maverick Buchanan—the love of her life and Archer’s twin brother—she’d probably laugh her ass off.

“Us Taylor girls. Seems like we’re suckers for bikers.”

Gag.

Wait.

I replay the memory again, the same way I’ve done a thousand times over the years, though I’d never admit it out loud. Raine was there, too. And even though I didn’t recognize the biker, Raine did. She said it was…Pax. My attention slices to the back of the helmet in front of me.

There’s no way.

Is there?

I scan Pax’s broad shoulders and the curve of his spine beneath his T-shirt. Is it him? Could it be? That’s ridiculous.

Isn’t it?

Yeah, no, it’s totally ridiculous, but also…I’m pretty sure Raine called the guy Pax.

Holy shit.

I thought about that day for years. Stupid, yes. But still. Funny how fate likes to fuck with me sometimes. What are the odds I’d be on the back of his bike a thousand miles from Lockwood Heights?

Fascinating.

Pax revs the engine, and I press my front to his back as he leans into the turn, driving us down a side road where a fast food restaurant waits. The neon light glows above us as we turn into the parking lot, and the scent of grease and salt hits my nostrils. When my stomach grumbles, Paxton’s back rumbles against me.

He turns his bike off and lowers the kickstand to the black pavement. “I was gonna ask if you like burgers, but I’m gonna go with yes.”

Refusing to confirm his assumption, I climb off the bike and start undoing the helmet strap beneath my chin. Pax batsmy hands away like before, the same way he’d swat at a pesky fly. It shouldn’t make me smile, but it does. I like how casual he is. How effortlessly sexy and caring he is, even though he hides it under the guise of annoyance or something. It’s…also fascinating. His fingers are calloused. The gentle scratch shoots straight to my core while he slips the strap from the metal buckle and pulls my helmet off.

Eyes glued to me, his mouth quirks up, and I swear I can see the wheels turning in his brain, but he doesn’t say a word.

It only makes me squirm more, and considering the fact that his calloused hands were just on me, it’s saying something. “Is there a problem?” I ask.

“You look like you just had the best sex of your life.”

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