Page 87 of Restitution

She’s waiting by my bike when I get to the garage – wearingcomfort clothing like I am. She’s even wearing a woolly hat.

I grab the bobble at the top and pull it off, messing her hair. She frowns at me, and I gesture to the helmet. “You’re wearing that.”

It’s big on her, but it’s better than nothing. I keep the visor open as I fasten the clips under her chin, feeling a bout of butterflies hitting me with the way she’s watching my every move.

Being loved by Stacey Rhodes is a dream. Why does my dream need to be a nightmare?

“Can I drive it?”

I laugh and pull my own helmet on, and when she crosses her arms and pops out her hip, I stop laughing. “You’re joking?”

“No. We can go somewhere and you can teach me, like when you taught me how to drive a car.”

“You crashed four times.”

She tuts. “How many cars have you written off?”

I stay silent, narrowing my eyes at her.

There’s a smile on her mouth. I can’t see it, but I can see it in her eyes.

“You can drive it down to the front gate,” I say, moving over to the bike and patting the seat. “Sit in front of me and I’ll hold your hands over the handles and shift our balance to move.”

She climbs on, wobbling a little before I jump on behind her, unsure where to put my hands at first as I point out each part of the bike. She listens, nodding, and when she adjusts herself, she pushes her ass against me.

My hands fist, my teeth gritting at the feel of her entire body pressing against my front, and it only gets worse as I cradle her, placing my hands over her on the handlebars.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Ready,” she confirms, and the bike stalls.

“You let go of the clutch too fast. Slowly, the same way you do in a car.”

This time, we move forward, and I already regret my decision as we pull out the garage and, very messily, zigzag all the way down the driveway.

My guards watch us, and I know they’re probably wondering what the fuck is going on. The SUV follows behind us, and I slip my fingers between hers to gain more control and drive us to the gate.

“Can I keep going?” she asks through the Bluetooth. “Just to the end of the road.”

“Don’t kill us.”

She giggles, and when the gate opens, her wrist curls, and we jolt forward so hard, my helmet smacks into hers. “Shit,” she blurts. “Sorry, but you are the worst teacher.”

“You’re the worst order-taker. Go fucking slow, or I’ll take over.”

“Yes, sir,” she says sarcastically, and I knock my helmet into hers lightly.

We make it to the end of the road, but only because I take over, with my fingers between hers, my front pressing to her back, leaning left and right as we move. As soon as we hit the main road, I pull in.

“Can we stay like this?” she asks.

I keep the bike up with my feet flat on the ground while she dangles from the seat, pulling back and letting go of the handlebars. She twists her body to look at me, flipping up her visor, and I see the excitement in her eyes.

“It’s a two-hour journey,” I say, pulling my phone out to connect it to our helmets just as the SUV stops behind us. “But wecan go for a bit and stop for some food.”

She nods excitedly. “I’d like that.”

I sigh, waiting for my playlist to start. “Hearing Damage” by Thom Yorke plays, and Stacey groans. “I love this song.”