Page 15 of Held-
But the other part of me, the part that's tired of playing it safe and being everyone else's victim, wants nothing more than to climb on the back of his bike and disappear.
I can't. Dad's waiting for his coffee.
Another message pops up.
One ride, Cece. When's the last time you did something just because you wanted to?
When was the last time? I can't remember. Every decision I've made for the past decade has been filtered through what other people expected, what would look good, what was appropriate for a my role.
I stare at my phone, the last text message blinking at me like a dare.
The words hit me like a sucker punch because he's right. I can't remember the last time I did something purely for myself. Even my divorce was reactive—a response to Ethan's betrayal rather than my own choice to break free.
Before I can second-guess myself, my fingers are typing.
Meet me at the church so I can drop off my car.
I slide into my car, set the coffees carefully in the cup holders, and take a deep breath. What am I doing? This is insanity. Pure, reckless insanity.
Yet I find myself starting the engine and pulling onto the street in the direction of my dad’s church. I park near the back entrance, hustling inside with dad’s coffee. Thankfully, he’s not in his office. I carefully put his cup down, chug mine, and head back outside just as Brayden pulls up.
The motorcycle is larger up close than it looked from across the street, all gleaming chrome and matte black metal that seems to absorb the winter sunlight rather than reflect it. Brayden holds out a helmet to me without a word, his eyes watching me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
“I've never been on a motorcycle before,” I admit, taking the helmet from him. It's heavier than I expected.
“First time for everything.” There's that hint of a smile again, just enough to make my pulse quicken. “Unless you're having second thoughts.”
I should be. I should absolutely be having second thoughts, thirds, and fourths. But instead, I'm fastening the helmet under my chin with trembling fingers.
“Need help?” he asks, and before I can answer, his hands are on mine, gently nudging them aside. His fingers brush against my neck as he adjusts the strap, and I try not to shiver at the contact.
“Thanks,” I manage, my voice embarrassingly breathless.
“Hop on,” he says, swinging his leg over the bike with practiced ease. “Arms around my waist, hold tight, and lean when I lean.”
I hesitate for just a moment, glancing back at the church. My father could walk out any second and find me climbing onto the back of a motorcycle with a man in a leather cut. The scandal would eclipse even this morning's coffee shop showdown.
But for once in my life, I don't care.
CECE
I've never beengood at following directions, but gripping Brayden's waist feels like the most natural thing in the world.
The motorcycle rumbles to life beneath us, vibrating through my entire body in a way that makes me acutely aware of every nerve ending I possess. My arms tighten around his torso involuntarily, and I can feel the solid muscle beneath his leather cut, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
“You good?” he calls over his shoulder, his words muffled by the engine noise.
“Ask me that after you start moving,” I call back, echoing his earlier words. The irony isn't lost on me—twenty minutes ago I was buying coffee like any other Tuesday morning, and now I'm pressed against the back of a man who probably has a rap sheet longer than my grocery list.
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest and into my arms. “Hold on, Cece.”
And then we're moving.
The first few seconds are terrifying—the ground rushing past, the wind whipping at the exposed skin around my helmet, the complete lack of walls or seatbelts or anything resembling safety between me and the asphalt. But as we turn onto Main Street, something shifts. The fear transforms into something else entirely. Something that feels dangerously close to freedom.
We cruise through downtown San Salona at a speed that would be reasonable in a car but feels like flying on the back of a bike. I catch glimpses of familiar faces on the sidewalks. Mrs. Henderson pauses mid-sidewalk sweep to gawk at us, her mouth falling open so wide I'm surprised a bird doesn't nest in it. I resist the urge to wave. Let her run to her phone and start the gossip chain. After my verbal altercation with my ex-father-in-law this morning, it’s likely already running rampant.
Brayden takes a left onto Maple Street, and I realize he's heading toward the outskirts of town, away from the manicured lawns and judgment-filled windows. The houses grow smaller, farther apart, until we're cruising past farmland and patches of woods that I'd forgotten existed.