Page 9 of London Inked Boys: The Complete Trilogy
“I’m an excellent rider. You’ll be completely safe.”
“I don’t think so.”
His dark eyebrows lift. “Don’t you want to make your meeting?”
“Well, yes…” I hesitate. “I do.”
“Then let me give you a ride.”
I search for another way out of the situation. I don’t want to be rude to him, or make him angry, but the thought of being on the back of that bike, with this scary-looking guy in charge, makes my stomach churn with nerves.
“Don’t you have any clients?” I ask.
“I already finished with this morning’s, and my afternoon slot isn’t until two. We’re good.”
I grasp around for another excuse. It isn’t only that I’m terrified of riding the bike—which I’ve never done before in my life—I also know it will mean getting up close and personal with Art Fletcher.
“There’s only one helmet,” I point out.
“I’ve a spare in the shop.”
I frown slightly. “You do? You seem to have a lot of your stuff here.”
He shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I?”
I eye him curiously. “Right.”
“So, are you coming on my bike, or are you gonna miss your meeting?”
Forcing myself to make the decision, I say, “Yes, okay. And thanks.”
He jerks his chin in a nod. “No problem. Wait here a sec.”
He vanishes back inside and emerges moments later carrying the helmet he mentioned. He hands it to me, and I pull it on over my head. It’s heavier than expected and my neck feels strangely wobbly.
Art climbs onto the seat first then pats the spot behind him for me to climb on. The smart suit I’m wearing isn’t designed for motorbike riding, but once I manage to get my leg over, I settle on comfortably.
I hesitate, wondering if I can hold onto the seat without risking falling off. He must sense my indecision.
“It’s okay. You can put your arms around my waist. I promise I don’t bite. Much.”
I know he’s teasing, but even so, his words send a little shiver through me. I’m not the type of woman who rides bikes through London, with her arms around some big, tattooed stranger. Self-consciously, I link my hands across his stomach, trying not to think about the hard muscle that presses against my palms.
Art kicks the bike to life. We start moving, and my hold tightens, forgetting my self-consciousness, more focused on self-preservation. He pulls out of the alleyway and onto the main road at the front of the shop.
I ride the bike, clinging to him for dear life. His muscles moving beneath his t-shirt distract me, the scent of him making me heady. The engine thrums beneath me. My heart races, my breath catching. Art weaves the bike in and out of traffic. We skim perilously close to the side of a big, red double-decker bus, and barely make the lights, causing me to hold on tighter.
By the time I get off, my legs are shaky and I’m lightheaded and not quite myself. Art watches me as though he understands exactly how I feel, as though we’ve shared a drug of some kind and now inhabit our own private world. I’m not sure I can sit opposite an old, stuffy man in a suit and act normal. My hair must look like it’s been plastered to my scalp after being squashed in the helmet all that time.
“Go on,” Art encourages me. “You’re gonna be late. I’ll be waiting right here.”
“Oh, you don’t need to wait for me.”
“Are you going back home after?”
Home—the word rings in my ears.
“Umm, yes, I guess so.”
