Page 10 of Drift
Her mouth fell open. “Excuse me?”
“This fucking death trap.” I tapped the hood harder than necessary. “Jax lets you drive around in this?”
“Jaxton doesn’tletme?—”
“He should’ve bought you a new car years ago.” Jax was a tech genius and fucking brilliant. He could afford to buy his sister a fleet of cars and not put a dent in his worth.
She planted her hands on her hips. “He offered. I said no.”
I looked over at her, the words still rolling hot in my chest. “Why?”
“Because I’m a grown-ass woman, that’s why. It’s bad enough I’m living in a place he set up for me. I’m not adding ‘let my brother buy my car’ to the list.”
My teeth ground together, but I didn’t argue. I respected the hell out of that answer, even if it made me want to throttle the gorgeous woman in front of me. “Fine. But you’re not driving this again.”
“I’ll get it fixed tomorrow.”
“You won’t.”
Her chin lifted. “Yes, I will.”
I growled in frustration, surprised and a little pleased that she didn’t seem intimidated. Not many people out there wouldn’t shrink back or run away from my wrath.
“Fine,” I gritted out. “Let me take a look. It’s dead?”
“I guess. It wouldn’t start.” She gestured helplessly toward the open hood, cheeks flushed from the heat. Or from me showing up so fast.
“Keys.”
She handed them over without argument this time. I leaned in, checked the connections, and caught the faint smell of burnt oil under the cleaner she had used on the dash. The engine coughed once and died again when I tried it.
“Starter’s shot,” I muttered. “You’re not driving this anywhere.”
Her mouth tightened. “Like I said, I can get it fixed.”
“Not today.” I was done with this argument. She would be driving a different car tomorrow, whether she liked it or not.
“Drift—”
I shut the hood hard enough to make her jump. “You got somewhere to be. Grab your bag.”
She hesitated, the instinct to argue flashing in her eyes. Then she sighed, muttered something about “bossy bikers,” and disappeared inside while I suppressed a smile.
When she came back out, she carried a purse. Her eyes met mine, and she seemed to fill with nervous energy again, making her words tumble out. “You really don’t have to—I mean, I can?—”
I held out my spare helmet. “Get on.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “I can’t ride on that.”
My mouth curved down. “Why the fuck not?”
She sputtered. “Because only a guy’s old lady rides behind him!”
“And family.”
She went quiet at that, and her eyes dropped, but not before I saw the disappointment flicker in those stormy-gray pools before she masked it. I knew she’d misunderstood the weight behind it—by family, I meant mine. But I didn’t explain because it wouldn’t do either of us any favors. If she’d looked closer, though, she would’ve seen the lie sitting under my tongue.
She pulled on the helmet, and I helped her climb on. The moment her arms slid around my waist, something in me short-circuited. Her body molded against my back, warm and soft. I gripped the handlebars tighter than I needed to and hit the road.
