Page 25 of Egg Me On (Front Range Motorcycle Collective #1)
Cash
Aiden's laugh vibrated through me as he pressed against my side, the ancient springs of his grandmother's floral monstrosity of a sofa creaking beneath us.
Pizza boxes littered the coffee table, and some movie about zombie cheerleaders flickered across the screen, casting blue-tinged shadows across his face.
His body fit against mine like it had been designed for that purpose, the warmth of him seeping through my clothes, anchoring me in a way I still couldn't quite believe was real.
One week since that moment in the parking lot, since I'd laid myself bare through a fucking social media post because my throat closed up whenever I tried to tell him how I felt.
One week of falling asleep with his head on my chest, waking to his morning-breath kisses, learning the rhythm of his life.
And still, part of me waited for the other shoe to drop.
"Oh my god, look at her face," Aiden snorted, pointing at the screen where a blood-spattered cheerleader shrieked in B-movie glory. "That's not fear, that's constipation." He tilted his head back, eyes crinkling with laughter as he glanced up at me. "Am I ruining the cinematic masterpiece for you?"
I shook my head, lips twitching into what felt like the thousandth smile he'd pulled from me today alone.
Words weren't necessary—he'd grown fluent in my silences, reading the slight shifts in my expression that most people missed.
My fingers traced idle patterns along his shoulder, mapping the topography of him through the worn fabric of his t-shirt.
"The director definitely thought he was making high art," Aiden continued, reaching for another slice of pizza. Grease glistened on his fingers as he gestured at the screen. "Look at those camera angles. Very avant-garde zombie apocalypse. Much deep. So horror."
I snorted, taking a bite of my own slice. Supreme with extra cheese. It was Aiden's favorite, not mine, but I was discovering I'd eat cardboard if it made him smile that particular smile, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made something in my chest contract painfully.
Boyfriend. The word surfaced in my mind without warning, bringing with it a jolt of uncertainty.
Was that what we were now? We hadn't discussed labels, hadn't formally defined whatever this was between us.
Just fallen into a rhythm of shared nights and stolen kisses and my motorcycle parked more often in his driveway than at my apartment.
His sister wandered in. “Hey, dorks,” she said cheerfully. The cushions dipped she flung herself onto the opposite end of the sofa, her designer leggings and perfectly highlighted hair a stark contrast to Aiden's rumpled comfort. She reached over me, snagging a slice of pizza without asking.
“We’re the dorks? Really?” Aiden asked, lobbing a napkin at his sister.
"Don’t tell me you’re indulging his love for 2-star horror movies?" she asked, folding the slice in half and taking a bite that was somehow both dainty and aggressive.
"Vampire Stripper Zombie Hunters! It's a classic," Aiden protested, not bothering to sit up from where he was nestled against my side.
Mira rolled her eyes, chewing thoughtfully before her gaze settled on me with unnerving directness. "So, Cash, I saw your brother lost that senate race.”
Aiden stuck his tongue out at her. “We don’t talk about Cash’s brother. Not until he apologizes.”
Leo wouldn’t apologize, but not talking to my family hadn’t been that difficult.
Mira rolled her eyes. “He’s an ass-hat anyway. And how was therapy today? Learn to talk yet?"
The question landed like an unexpected punch, stealing the air from my lungs.
My body tensed, pizza slice hovering halfway to my mouth.
The words to respond, to deflect, explain, or tell her it was none of her fucking business, jammed in my throat, trapped behind the familiar wall of what I now realized was anxiety.
Anxiety that therapy was supposed to help dismantle.
I glanced at Aiden, finding his eyes already on me, warm with understanding.
"Jesus, Mira," he said, poking his sister's thigh with his sock-covered foot. "It was his first session with the therapist, not magical fix-it hour. Besides—" His hand found mine, fingers interlacing with deliberate purpose. "I love Cash exactly how he is."
My chest tightened at the casual declaration, at how easily he said the words that still lodged in my throat like shrapnel. I squeezed his hand, hoping he could read under the pressure what I couldn't say aloud.
Aiden grinned and kissed me on the cheek.
Mira glanced at me, then at him. “Okay, so I get that Cash is stupid hot, and does that growly, possessive, caveman thing. Which I dig. But are you sure you couldn’t do better?”
Aiden gasped and jabbed her with his elbow. “Mira! He’s sitting right here!”
“What? I just have to ask. Obviously, I can see why he’d love you, Aiden, because you’re related to me, and so… clearly lovable. But what does he bring to the table? Presumably a big dick?”
I choked on my beer.
Aiden rolled his eyes. “He brings adventure. Gets me to look around, enjoy life. Holds my hand, makes sure I’m safe, and then takes me for a wild ride up into the mountains.” He lowered his voice. “And he has a big dick.”
Mira burst out laughing. "God, I did not need to know that." Mira patted my knee. “You know, I’m glad you found each other. Just try not to be too corny around my friends.”
Aiden threw a wadded-up napkin at her, which she batted away with impressive reflexes. "You're just jealous because the frat boys you date have the emotional depth of a kiddie pool."
"At least they can string more than three words together," she shot back, then immediately winced.
"Sorry, Cash. That was bitchy." She reached out and touched my hand, an unexpected gesture.
“You are a sweetheart, and I do love everything you do for my brother. Well, maybe not the motorcycle rides—”
“Quit while you’re ahead,” Aiden grumped, elbowing his sister. They had this antagonistic, teasing way of communicating, but it was clear they loved each other beneath it all. It was clear that Mira cared a lot about Aiden, and that was what mattered in all of it.
Besides, it wasn't an inaccurate observation, just a blunt one, and there was something refreshing about her lack of pity, the way she treated me just like she treated her brother, as if she expected that one day, I might see her as a true sister.
"Anyway," she continued, standing in one fluid motion and snagging another slice of pizza, "I'm headed out.
Brunch planning committee for the sorority fundraiser.
" She grabbed her keys from the hook by the door, stuffing them into her purse.
"Don't wait up. And maybe disinfect that couch when you're done making out on it.
Grandma's ghost doesn't need to witness whatever happens next. "
The door slammed behind her, leaving a sudden, expectant silence broken only by the screams of zombie victims on the television. Aiden's thumb traced small circles against my palm, each movement sending ripples of heat up my arm.
"Sorry about her," he said, reaching for the remote to pause the carnage on screen. "She means well. Usually. Sometimes. In her own prickly, boundary-challenged way, she approves of you. I think she even likes you."
I made a non-committal noise. In truth, I found Mira's abrasiveness easier to handle than the forced politeness I’d gotten from families of past partners. Mira was treating me like she treated everyone in the family. Like I belonged.
Aiden flipped off the movie, then shifted, turning more fully toward me, his eyes searching mine. "You okay, though? Do you want to talk about therapy? I was waiting for you to broach the subject, but I’m realizing now that might not work with you."
I nodded, letting out a slow breath. The session had been.
.. not terrible. Just an initial consultation, more about establishing a baseline than diving into the messy tangle of my communication issues.
The therapist had been surprisingly straightforward, no coddling or pressure, just practical questions, and observations.
She'd left me with a packet about how to use non-verbal cues with people in my life.
Outside, I could hear the distinctive screech of Mira’s overly aggressive exit from the driveway—she probably went through more tires than a race car driver—and relaxed a little, knowing that we were alone.
"It was fine.” The words were coming more easily the safer I felt with him. “She was nice.”
Aiden's smile bloomed, slow and sweet, the kind that still made my breath catch weeks after I'd first seen it. "Yeah? Did she have ideas?"
I nodded again, swallowing against the tightness in my throat, wishing I could tell him more about the relief of having someone take my silence seriously, and about the hope that maybe I could learn to navigate the gap between what I felt and what I could express.
Instead, I handed him the packet the therapist had given me, and as he flipped through it, I pulled him closer, burying my face in his hair and breathing in the scent of his shampoo, letting my body say what my voice couldn't.
“This is good stuff,” he said, as he scanned the words. “Non-verbal cues. Why didn’t we think of this before?”
Aiden set the paper aside, and his eyes met mine, mischief dancing in their hazel depths as his lips curved into a smile that promised trouble.
The moment stretched between us, charged with possibility now that we were finally, gloriously alone.
My fingers twitched with the need to touch him properly, to reclaim the intimacy that his sister's presence had interrupted.