Page 16 of Tater
The dragon bristled. “He commands you?”
“He asks,” she thought.
And somehow, she did.
The fire sank back into her skin. Smoke curled and vanished. The bar hissed as sprinklers finally kicked in, freezing water rained over everything.
He walked toward her through it—soaked, calm, a grin ghosting his mouth.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Define all right,” Ren said. My hands still smoked.
“Alive.”
“Barely.”
“Then you’re ahead of the curve.” He offered the cue like a staff between us. “Tater.”
“Ren.”
He nodded once, as if the names already meant something. “You got a bike?”
“Why?”
“Because this place is about to fill with cops, and I don’t do paperwork.”
Outside, night hit us like fresh air. He moved to his Harley—matte black, engine growling even before he kicked it over. I hesitated at mine, half-melted from the heat. He noticed.
“Ride with me,” he said. “Just to the edge of town.”
“Maybe I like the middle.”
“Middle’s where you get caught.”
The dragon murmured, “He’s not afraid.”
“No,” she answered it. “He’s not.”
Ren swung onto the back of his bike. The seat was warm; his back was broader than it looked in the bar. The moment the engine roared, she felt something click into place—like gears finding the right teeth after grinding too long.
They tore down the highway under a reddish-gold moon, smoke trailing behind Them. Wind whipped her hair across his shoulder; his laugh rolled up from his chest, surprised and real.
He shouted over the noise, “You always light up first dates?”
“Only when they get handsy!”
He laughed harder, full, and rough. It was the first time she’d heard him sound alive.
By the time They hit the outskirts, the heat in her hands had cooled, the dragon quiet again.
They stopped near an old grain silo. Dust, crickets, stars like sparks. He cut the engine, leaned forward on the bars, but didn’t turn around.
“You planning to keep running?” he asked.
“From what?”
“From whoever keeps making you burn.”
