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“I keep finding women,” he muses, stopping about two feet in front of me, close enough for me to see he’s wearing the half-skull mask that I saw him wearing that day at the traffic light. “What do you think that means?” he asks.

“I’m not sure,” I reply, wondering who else he’s found and why he wears the scary masks when he rides.

“Well, at least you didn’t run.”

“Why would I run from you?”

His eyes stay on mine as he pulls the mask off, then removes his leather jacket. “You blind? Can’t see my fucked-up face? Or the psycho mask? Take your pick.”

His words both shock and hurt me. Obviously, he’s much bolder with his thoughts in the dark.

“You don’t—”

He thrusts the jacket toward me. “Put this on.”

“Why?”

“’Cause you’ll freeze your ass off on the bike.”

I squeak at the mere idea of getting on the back of that motorcycle with him, being forced to be so close to him, to have to put my hands on him to keep from falling off.Oh my God.I think I’d rather keep walking.

He steps closer, and I’m still so lost in the anxiety of either getting on the bike with him or walking for who knows how long that I let him take my backpack out of my hand, and I slip my arms through the sleeves of his jacket. It easily fits over my own, the sleeves hanging inches past my fingertips. Heat, tobacco, and pine linger in the worn leather, encapsulating me in his raw masculinity as if I’ve stepped inside him. Slowly, he drags the front zipper up, sending comforting warmth through my veins. His fingers shake—maybe from the cold—and linger at the pulse of my throat, at the end of the zipper trail. I feel like a little girl again—safe, protected, taken care of.

Innocent.

“Won’t you be cold now?” I ask, my voice quivering. “Without your jacket?”

“I’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

I follow him to his bike, my legs weak and wobbly with growing apprehension. I’ve never been on a motorcycle before. I haven’t even been on a bicycle since I was a little girl. Even scarier than that is how close I’ll be to him. The seat is small, with no backrest and nothing to hold on to. Except him.

“You gonna pass out?” he asks, eyeing me as I shift my weight from one foot to the other.

“I might,” I admit.

“I’ll go slow,” he says. Then, “But you never know… you might like it fast, too.”

I smile weakly, wondering why my heart has suddenly started to beat faster and my cheeks are flushing with heat even though I’m cold. Something about his voice… his words…

He throws his leg over the bike, settles onto the seat, and kicks the kickstand up in one smooth, natural motion, as if the bike is an extension of his body. His head tilts toward me as he pulls out a pack of cigarettes, taps one out, and lights it up with the same silver lighter he always seems to have in his pocket. “All aboard, sugar.”

The act of jumping behind him and parting my thighs around the back of his body is making me feel woozy in a strange, electrifying way.

“When I tell you to spread, you spread. I’ll break your fucking legs.”

I rub the back of my neck nervously.

Get out of my head. Please. You’re dead…

He exhales smoke tendrils from his nostrils like a mystical dragon. “Tell me what you’re scared of.”

Being lost forever.

Never feeling normal.

I stare down at the ground, fighting the fears in my head untilhe reaches toward me and hooks his pinky finger into mine, tugging gently. “I could walk you home,” he suggests in his soft, scratchy way. Our voices are intimate in the quiet of the chilly night air, as if we’re the only two people who exist.

My head snaps up, and tears instantly pool in my eyes when I see the depth of sincerity in his. He’s not kidding. He’ll leave his bike right here on the side of the road and walk me home, in the cold and the dark, just so I won’t be alone.