Page 22 of The Last Sunrise

“Why did you do that? Someone’s going to call the police.” Julián’s voice falls on my ears.

I snap my eyes open.

“Because he was about to beat the shit out of you,” I remind him. “We should go before he comes out here.”

He scoffs, “He wasnotgoing to beat the shit out of me.” He says this as if we were debating a completely unreasonable notion, like whether dogs could fly or not.

“Seemed like it,” I huff.

“I saved your ass, and you still have an attitude,” he says, laughing into the night.

“Correction, I saved you.” Whether or not I was right or not wasn’t the point, and I did appreciate him getting the guy away from me, but no way in hell was I going to say it.

“You know you’re wrong.” He seems a little amused and less annoyed than I expect. “But I don’t care enough to argue with you. Were you sick or something?”

My heart stops at the wordsick. “What?”

He nods toward the direction of the bar. “Back there, when you were dancing, you were fine and then it seemed like you were getting sick. I warned you about those shots.”

I laugh, the fakest laugh in my life. “Oh yeah. Totally. It was the shots.”

Something about the way he’s looking at me makes me squirm. For a stranger, he sure can read me like a book. I can feel it in my bones as he continues to study me. “Anyway, thanks for trying to help. I’ll try not to see you again, really this time.”

In the distance, I hear a siren. We both look toward the flashing lights reflecting in the sky a few streets over.

“I told you.” He shrugs. “Come on.” His hand reaches out for me, but before I can grab it, he drops it.

We quickly cross another road, and he stops in front of a motorcycle-looking thing. Of course he drives one.

“Put this on.” He pushes a black helmet against my chest.

I look at the death trap on wheels. “What? No freaking way! Plus, you’re drunk.”

“I had two drinks over an hour ago, and my tolerance is a hell of a lot stronger than yours, but fine. Stay here and get arrested or lost again, Miss Know-It-All.” He climbs onto the bike, puts a helmet on, and gives me one more chance to get on.

If something happens and I hit my head…

If my mom…

I shut off the internal worried monologue and put the helmet on. This is what I’m here for, to do things I would never, ever, typically do. I swing my leg over the side and Julián puts his hands over mine, wrapping my arms around his torso.

“Stop calling me annoying nicknames,” I growl into his ear.

I’m terrified and excited as he pulls onto the stone road, whipping through the warm summer wind mixing beautifully with his laughter.

Chapter Nine

When we finally stop, it’s been either ten minutes or an hour, I can’t recall. The ride was much less terrifying than I thought it would be, and he didn’t do the asshole thing of speeding up to try and scare me. Once we reached the shoreline, the smell of the salt water filled the air and he slowed down, taking the curves slowly enough that I could hear the waves crashing. It became relaxing, freeing. I can see the appeal now. Not that I’m going to make a hobby out of it, but I don’t hate it.

“Wasn’t so bad, was it? You’re alive,” Julián says, kicking his foot to put the break stand down.

“Alive, yes. Not so bad,” I admit, yanking my hands from his torso and crossing them in front of me, flushed that I kept hold of him a bit too long.

He pulls his helmet off. “I can’t believe you were going to tell that guy your hotel name. You’re really naïve, aren’t you?” he asks, shaking his hair out.

I tug at the helmet on my head, trying to find the clasp to undo it. Julián steps off the bike and it shifts a little, changing the balance, making me uneasy. I reach out and hold on to his shirt, and his hands move to help me. My heart is pounding,reminding me of just how alive I am. I don’t need to think too much about whether it’s the bike or him that’s making me feel so jittery, like I’ve had ten shots of espresso. He stays standing directly in front of me, my mind jotting down the thickness and dramatic curl of his eyelashes, seeming to shine under the dim streetlamp. His hands reach behind my head as he takes my helmet off in one gentle but swift motion and puts it back into a pouch on the side of the bike. I catch a glimpse of the cover of a crossword puzzle book inside. He must take one with him everywhere. Is it anxiety? Or just a quirky, old-school hobby?

Instead of commenting on it or responding to his accusation that I’m naïve, I decide to change the subject altogether.

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