Page 97 of Icing Hearts

He twists the key in the ignition and the bike hums to life. Half a dozen different meters and neon lights glow across the instrument panel. “Two rules of riding,” Tory calls out over the growl of the engine. “One: lean when I lean.” He revs the throttle which revs my adrenaline.

“What’s number two?” I shout.

“Hold on tight.”

“I don’t think—” I begin. But he jerks the bike forward once, and I sink my body into his, clinging tighter than plastic wrap. My stomach rolls. If I puke, he probably won’t be inviting me for a ride anytime soon. That would probably be for the best.

Tory’s deep laugh is barely audible over the engine. “You were saying?”

“Nothing.”

I let out a shriek as he peels out of the parking lot a bit faster than he ought to. For a split second my nerves get the better of me, and I panic. So much could go wrong. I could throw off his balance, a car could stop short, my dad or one of his officers could see us.

Fear of the unknown, or rather, fear of the worst-case scenario coming true, has ruled my life for far too long. But I guess that’s what happens when your life becomes one big worst-case scenario. I went from being happy with parents who loved each other to my mother dying suddenly and my father abusing me for the past three years. Tears prick my eyes again.

Then, my left hand drifts up Tory’s chest and settles over his heart. The rhythm calms me with its constancy, and I rest my helmet against his back. A broad hand snakes over mine, and he interlaces our fingers as we ride, cementing my palm over his heart. My other hand takes on a life of its own, slowly, timidly curling around the inside of his thigh. Tory’s quad flexes in response.

Maybe I shouldn’t do it. No, I definitely shouldn’t do it. But I’m sick of following all the rules and second-guessing every single move I make. I’m tired of doing what’s expected. For one night, I want to make questionable choices. I want to toe the line.

I want to feel.

I want to live.

I want to risk.

Everything.

What I feel is the bike thrumming beneath me and the sweet rush of adrenaline for a reason other than fight or flight. I realize I haven’t felt adrenaline for a good reason in…far too long.

Wind whips by me, tossing my loose hair around my shoulders. I lean my head back, chest flush against Tory as he expertly weaves up and down side streets. We come to a stop at a red light on Main Street, and Tory reaches back with both hands, thumbs and fingers stroking soothing circle against my knees.

“How ya doing back there?”

“Splendid.”

“You ready for a pull?”

“What’s a pull?” I ask, already vaguely aware of what he’s asking.

“Really fast for a few seconds.”

My gut instinct is to say no. To giggle and caution him away from the action.

“Better decide quick,” he taunts. The opposite light turns yellow and ours will be green in about three seconds. He’s been keeping his speed around 30 mph thus far. But there’s a straightaway up ahead. And tonight is a night for yesses.

“Do it,” I tell him with resignation.

“Attagirl.”

As we near the straightaway, I link my fingers around Tory’s waist. He gives my knee a squeeze—a final warning.

And then he rips the throttle, shifting as the speedometer climbs.

Thirty.

Forty.

Fifty.

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