Page 27 of One Secret

I have literally no idea what he's talking about. I haven't met any guy in a bar.

'The tall guy who—never mind.' He cuts himself off. 'Not my business.'

Unsure how to respond, I let myself fall under the distraction that is Cyrus in the sunshine.

Normally when he's in town, we've met after shift or in the dead of night. With him often gone by morning, I hardly get to see the man in the daylight.

He looks paler than usual, his skin a smooth palette of cooler tones. His hair is light, cut ultra-short, and gleams a dark silver in the sun.

Throw in the seriously annoyed vibe he's giving off this morning and I can see why Lily-Anne got the heebie-jeebies.

Cyrus's gaze falls on my bag.

'That all you've got?'

'Flipflops and sunblock don't take up all that much space,' I joke. 'And you're sure I don't need my passport?'

'Positive.'

Whilst it hadn't been much of a conversation, I'd received texts (in his usual minimalist manner) confirming that flying out of the country wouldn't cause the very issues I've been trying to avoid with immigration. My passport and VISA, according to Cyrus, would be unnecessary.

How he'd managed that is beyond me, but I'm choosing not to argue.

I figure if he plans to sell me into white slavery or something, I'll just clock him in the eye and steal his bike.

Getting off the machine in question, Cyrus holds out a large hand.

'Give me the bag. I'll store it.'

I hand it over and he pops the seat of the bike. On closer inspection of my rucksack, he glances back at me for a moment.

'What?' I challenge.

He points to one of the badges that still has its face plate. It's faded and ragged around the edges, but the band logo emblazed across its front is still legible.

'Van Halen?' he asks with a sneer.

'Shut your judging face.'

'Not judging.' His words are saying one thing but that little curl at the corner of his lips is saying another.

'They rock. And David Lee Roth was hot. End of discussion.'

'That's the hill you'll die on, is it?' he asks.

'It is.' I'm vehement in my reply.

Cyrus finishes stowing away my bag and then raises his hands in defeat. It looks less like a voluntary surrender and more like he just doesn't want to touch a subject so distasteful to him.

Well, if ever you needed a sign that this relationship was to be short-lived, Darce...

'Put this on.'

Cyrus has unhooked his helmet from his handlebars and is holding it out to me.

I'm surprised when he then takes out a pair of aviators from inside his jacket and puts them straight onto his nose.

'You...' I glance at his now-sealed seat compartment as if it might suddenly produce a new piece of headgear. 'You don't have two?'

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