Page 59 of Average Joe

“Really?”

He nodded, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “My mom worked hard. Two jobs most of the time. Alice drove me to school every day, kept me off the streets and mostly out of trouble.”

“Single mom?” I asked, hungry for more, ignoring the alarm bells in my head that clanged and donged their warnings of oncoming heartbreak.

I could not fall for Joe, but, Jesus save me, I liked him.

“Yes.” His eyes warmed. “Great lady. Good mom.” He plucked some rocks off the ground and moved closer to the water. “She married after I graduated high school. Moved to Spain.”

He threw a stone, watched it arc, then fall.

I followed suit, grabbing a handful of pebbles. “And you stayed in Seattle?” I threw, but mine landed only half as far as Joe’s.

He continued. “Moved in with Alice. Planned on staying through college.”

“College?” escaped my lips with a tone of disbelief.

“Don’t look so surprised.” He chucked another stone, then dropped the remaining rocks at his feet and dusted his hands together. “Finished my first year with honors.”

“Sorry.” A large fly bounced around my Keens, then landed on a piece of driftwood, its purple-and-green wings catching the sun’s rays just right. I couldn’t look Joe in the eye, ashamed of my judgmental wall. “What about your dad?”

Joe looked over his shoulder toward his bike, fists clenched. “That’s a convo for another day.”

“Sure,” I conceded, understanding one hundred percent. My father was the sorest of subjects.

Joe and I walked along the shore, conversation light. He pointed out the three-story house where he’d fallen in love with Ginger. On our way back, he asked, “What’s the deal with Singleton?”

Oh, jeez. I laughed. “You’ve been chewing on that question for a while, haven’t ya?”

Joe frowned, but I’d grown tired of making him scowl. Something shifted inside my rib cage, a little painful at first, but then, as I stared up at the man who’d been patient and persistent despite my ugly behavior, my chest loosened, allowing me room to breathe, feel, and maybe, God forbid, let somebody in.

“Just friends,” I assured him.

“Good answer,” was his reply.

And I couldn’t help myself from teasing, “We could never be more than buddies. He doesn’t have a motorcycle. And you know how chicks dig bikes.

Joe

Chicks dig bikes.

That’s what they say, anyway.

The chick on my bike? That woman dug me. Hard. Me and my bike. How did I know? Because every time I hit the throttle, she howled, “Whoo!” Twice, her chest bounced in laughter against my back. Each time we came to a stop, those soft fingers remained splayed against my abdomen, our bodies fused.

Had I known a ride was all it’d take to loosen her up, I’d have offered weeks ago.

Fuck. The way she clung to my waist, her breasts smashed between our bodies, thighs gripping my hips, the way she leaned into every turn, moving with me like we were well-practiced partners. For that short ride, Joe Kaine, unemployed ex-con, was the fucking man.

I turned the corner for our street, and as I approached our houses, a white Z rolled past, the window half down. The driver wore dark shades, his face aimed our way, hair thick and dark. The guy did a double-take, then hit the gas.

I parked in my driveway, dismounted after Marley, and watched, grinning, while she removed her helmet. The fiery little shit gnawed her lip, fighting a smile and failing to hide her joy.

What a great goddamned sight.

“Did you see that Z?” I asked, nodding down the street.

She looked over her shoulder. “What Z?”

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