Page 2 of Filthy Rock Stars

I shift the bag of books to my other arm, flustered as I turn back to him. “I’m taking the bus. The stop is down the street.”

He blinks a couple of times, and his dark eyelashes flutter. He might be wearing black eyeliner, or he might naturally be that pretty.

With a startle, I realize I’m staring again.

The man smiles. “Do you want a ride?” he repeats. “I can drop you wherever you’d like.”

I laugh. “Thank you, but I’m not the kind of person who jumps onto a total stranger’s motorcycle.”

“Oh.” He looks pleasantly surprised, and I have no idea why. “Whatever.” He slides by to hop on the motorcycle, and the whisper of his body against mine brings a jolt of pleasure that brilliantly, briefly eclipses everything else.

Something about this man is making me lose my mind.

When he kicks the motorcycle on, I come to and blurt out what I’m thinking. “Why would you offer me a ride?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Unless you want to murder me and eat me or something. People don’t walk around offering rides to strangers.”

The man tilts his eyes down. “What’s in your bag?” he asks, changing the subject.

The question throws me. That’s the moment two things happen.

Soft rain falls on us, pattering the sidewalk, and Smith steps out of the store.

“Foo!” I curse under my breath.

The man laughs. “Foo?”

“Fuck,” I correct, horrified that I just said foo.

Smith turns and starts to walk in our direction, and I realize I only have one option.

“Do you have another helmet?”

The man chuckles. “Hop on.”

So I do that. Even though I am entirely not the kind of person who rides off on a motorcycle with a stranger, I hop on the back of this man’s bike and exchange the bag of books for a helmet, and we take off like a bullet.

“Oh!” I gasp and grab him. My hands close on his leather jacket, and the cool rain kisses my face. We’re cruising down a hilly Seattle street, and I feel like I’m soaring.

Holy shit. What am I doing?

And why in the hell did I say foo? That’s what my grandma used to say. She said it all the time, but I don’t.

We stop a couple blocks down. My heart is in my throat, and my knees are wobbly, and I’m not sure if I should jump off.

“Thank you for the save,” I manage.

“Where to?” the man asks over his shoulder, helmet still on.

“There’s a bus stop right there,” I say. “Another block. But I can walk.”

A couple of nervous heartbeats pass. I sharply pull my hands from his hips and instantly miss the connection.

“What’s in the bag?” he asks again.

I swallow. “Old sci-fi novels,” I say, my voice echoing in the helmet.

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