Page 47 of Making It Up

Because no one else is showing this woman anything that’s going to make her smile, and laugh, and gasp, and make her cheeks pink, make her breathe faster, mess up her hair, or get her dirty.

Whether we’re talking about dirt bikes...

Or something else.

CHAPTER 9

DAVID

Mia Hansen can shoot a gun. She knows how to scare off a mountain lion if she runs across one. She writes really fucking filthy fanfiction. I figured she’d find a way for us to see one another secretly, but that it would involve a few white lies to our friends and family and getting outside of the Sapphire Falls zip code.

Instead, I’m eating cheese and grapes in a deer blind five miles from my house. And she’s wearing hunting camo.

All of that surprised me because I made assumptions about her.

So I will not assume she’s a sweet little virgin who doesn’t know what she likes or wants in bed.

I also won’t assume that she’s thinking about sex the way I am when I offer to teach her things.

But if she’d like to try some of the things her imagination comes up with that she hasn’t had a chance to before…I would really like to be the one that helps her out.

I’m not going to lie to myself about that.

Or her, if it comes up.

But, while she’s smiling and meeting my gaze directly, there’s a pink tint to her cheeks now that makes me think that her dirty little mind is thinking exactly what I’m thinking.

She reaches for an apple slice and dips it in the cheese, then takes a bite. After she’s crunched for a few seconds, she asks, “What do you like about the dirt bikes?”

“They’re super cool and go fast.”

She smiles but shakes her head. “There’s more to it than that.”

There doesn’t need to be more to it than that, but I think I like the fact that she realizes there is. I nod. “Yeah.”

I glance toward the window. Like the night of the tornado, I could blame this on the fact that we’re alone in the dark and it’s conducive to me spilling my guts.

But I know that’s not it. This is all about Mia and that she’s easy to talk to. I get the impression that she will understand what I’m about to say very well.

“It’s controlled chaos,” I tell her. “If you aren’t paying attention, if you haven’t developed your skills, if you don’t work on control, the bike can easily take over and become dangerous. But you can master it. You can take this machine, this thing that can’t be reasoned with, that has no emotion, that’s moving at these incredible speeds and has this power to hurt you, and then completely control it. You can turn that power into an adrenaline rush and fun instead of danger.”

She’s not smiling now but she’s watching me with fascination. “It’s the same reason you like your job,” she says.

I feel my eyes widen.

But she nods as if she’s certain, and I don’t have to confirm it.

“You’re working with potentially dangerous situations all the time. Weather, wildlife, other humans who are armed or inebriated or just feel rules don’t apply to them. You’re facing all of that and exerting control over it. Using your influence to make it safe and even fun in the end for everyone who is counting on you.”

I knew she’d get it.

She continues, “And you like that because you felt a loss of control and felt like you didn’t have any ability to influence the chaos around your parents dying and what happened to you and your brothers after that.”

I nod.

Having her understand that, having her understand me, is now a problem. Because I like her even more.

“Pretty clear psych case study, right? “I ask.