Page 63 of Enemy Crush
“It sounds kinda fun.”
“Serious?”
“Well, I’ve never been on a motorbike before,” she said, her face lighting up.
A tornado whirled in my head with all the reasons I shouldn’t take Quinn home on my motorbike: I only had one helmet, I’d only taken Brayden as a passenger before and that was for a short ride, and Dad was a stickler for safety when it came to bikes. I risked his wrath if I broke the rules. Plus, her momwould probably hate me even more. But there was also the thought of Quinn being close to me, of being very close to me.
“I shouldn’t,” I said, “you don’t have proper gear.”
Quinn glanced down at her jeans and white sneakers as if to show we were dressed exactly the same. “Yeah, of course. I’ll call Mom,” she said, squeezing the little toy on her purse. And that glint in her eyes dulled. Like it had when her friend confronted her.
I didn’t want to be the one who muted Quinn’s glow. I wanted to see her shine.
“Wait,” I said, causing her to look up from her phone, “I’ll see if I can borrow a helmet. Pretty sure the Hamlins have one.”
We laughed as we packed the food into my backpack, carefully wrapping the eggs and placing them on top to minimize the chance of them getting scrambled on the ride home. She put it on her back and I gave her my helmet to wear, while I took one from the farm. I adjusted her chin strap, nervous at the proximity, of being that close to her startling blue eyes. Even more nervous that she’d be sitting right behind me, able to smell me. But there was nothing I could do about that now. Only hoping that my deodorant was doing what it claimed.
I jumped onto my bike, braced myself and directed her to put her left leg on the foot peg and climb on behind me.
“Hold onto my shoulder,” I said. “You can hold the handles or...me. Whatever feels most comfortable.”
I felt her wiggle on the seat and rejoiced when her hands rested on my hips—and stayed there.
“I won’t go fast, but just follow my body?” I shouted to make myself heard. “Keep your shoulders in line with mine.” It was advice Dad had taught me. “Okay?”
“Yep,” she called back.
I rode my bike the most careful I ever had, like a Grandpa, Brayden would say. But it was like I had precious cargo on the back and I didn’t mean the eggs.
Only when I entered Ambrose Lane did I accelerate a little, yeah some might say showing off, but I was confident being almost home. I swerved into the Devereaux’s driveway, feeling Quinn’s hands tighten around my waist, and though it wasn’t my brightest move, zoomed toward her house. However, I didn’t anticipate the driveway to be quite so short, nor did I expect her mother’s car to be parked there and I had to make a sharp u-turn to avoid hitting it. Quinn squealed as we skidded to a halt.
I would have felt bad if she hadn’t leaned against me.
I stopped the engine and turned around to check, expecting her to be annoyed or scared, but she was smiling, eyes lit up. And she hadn’t moved, still holding onto me.
I didn’t mind one bit.
But Mrs. Devereux did. She stood at the front door, a scowl so deep and wide that I flinched in fear. Hands moved to her hips in a fierce stance as she strode out toward us. Quinn slid off the back, her touch leaving a void like no other. That ride had been everything.
But I was afraid there was a reason I’d never get to go on a date with Quinn—and she was standing right in front of me.
Chapter 21
QUINN
“Mom, calm down!” I said. She was ranting and raving about how unsafe motorbikes were as we watched Miller crawl down the driveway at a turtle’s pace. “Believe me, it was perfectly safe.”
“Why didn’t you call me? I could have picked you up?”
“I wanted to help Miller unload the truck. It wasn’t fair that he did it all.”
“Humph!” Mom ushered me through the door, but first inspecting the back of her car as if Miller might have hit it. “What’s in your bag?”
“Ahh,” I said, taking off the backpack. “This is Miller’s. We were given some produce by the other stall holders.” I put it on the kitchen counter and unzipped it, praying the eggs had survived the journey. “Half of this is for Miller.”
Mom was extremely interested in the goods, sniffing the artisan loaves of bread and handling the loaf. But still she complained. “I’m not sure you should have anything to do with that boy. And you certainly shouldn’t be riding on the back of his motorbike. You don’t need to be associating with—”
“Mom!” I stopped her right there. “Why do you talk about him like that? He’s not the bad guy.”
