Page 104 of Under Your Scars

We walk down one of the long lines of cars to the very end where a charcoal-gray motorcycle waits. Something that’s made to gofast. Christian pulls two helmets off the rack hanging on the wall besides the bike and tries to hand it to me. I stare at him blankly.

“What?” he asks.

“When you said drive, I assumed heated seats would be involved.”

He gives me a patient smile and hands me the helmet. “You’ll love it. I promise.”

I shake my head. “I’d have to hold onto you.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Not really,” I say back. “Not like I used to.”

Christian rests the helmet on the handle of the bike, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’m still the same person, Elena. The same man you fell in love with. I think you know that, and it scares you, but I told you that very first night in your apartment that I’m the one thing you never have to be afraid of.”

“But Iamafraid of you,” I whisper. “I’m afraid of what you’ll do to yourself if I leave and I’m afraid of what you’ll do to me if I stay.”

He considers that for a moment, and then throws his leg over the bike. “Give me a chance to fix this.” He pats the seat behind him.

I let out an exasperated sigh. “Where are we even going?”

“Who says we need a destination?”

He throws his helmet over his head and then balances the bike so I can climb on. He’s so tall and broad. He looks way too big for it. It takes me a few long minutes, and I do take a step backwards like I’m going to leave him there, but I eventually concede. With a deep breath, I put the helmet over my head and take careful steps towards the bike. He doesn’t pressure me or rush me; he just patiently waits.

I’ve never been on the back of a motorcycle, so I throw my leg over in a very uncoordinated fashion. I have to use Christian’s shoulders to pull myself up. The position hurts my ribs, but it’s not unbearable. Once I’m comfortably in the seat, I give him a thumbs up.

“There’s a microphone, angel. You can talk to me. Are you ready?”

“No,” I say with a nervous laugh.

“I’ll go slow. You can hold onto me as much or as little as you want.”

“What if I want you to stop?”

“You won’t.”

With that, he turns on the bike and revs the engine a few times before slowly pulling out of the garage. It is a painstakingly slow pace. He drives in steady circles in the driveway until I get used to it, and then I experimentally wrap my arms around him. The solid feel of his muscles flexing under my touch sends a comforting sense of security through me. With me now less likely to fall off the bike, Christian drives a bit faster, testing my comfort level.

“I’m okay,” I say quietly into the microphone, and I feel him lightly pat my hands on his stomach before speeding off down the driveway.

I take a deep breath and let the tension in my shoulders fade, and once we leave the estate, I rest my head against his back.

Because I feel safe.

That really pisses me off, because the most infuriating thing about Christian Reeves is that he’s always somehow right.

I do love it. Riding with him on the back of his motorcycle, letting him race through traffic while I sit and watch the cars whiz past gives me a pleasant adrenaline rush. It’s thrilling.

He knows the streets so well. Knows exactly how fast he needs to go to beat all the lights, knows exactly where to turn to avoid traffic, not that there’s a lot of traffic this late, and knows which parts of the city are worth driving through and which streets are worth avoiding. We drive for what feels like an eternity, mostly staying on the South Side, where the buildings aren’t covered in graffiti and the windows aren’t boarded up to combat the robberies.

The rich side, to put it bluntly.

Though the memories and the fears are still in the back of my head constantly, I cherish this moment where Christian and I just get to be a man and a woman, driving through the city, pretending things are normal. Leaving everything that happened behind us for a while. I’m getting the chance to try and convince myself that I’m free from all that pain and suffering.

It's dark and chilly outside. When we’re stopped at a light, I know Christian can feel me shivering because he shrugs off his leather jacket and lets me wear it.

We drive for another hour before Christian comes to a stop outside of the Reeves Enterprises building. He props the bike up and then climbs off. He removes his helmet and shakes his hair out before helping me off the bike. I remove my helmet and ask what we’re doing here. He shushes me and leads me inside. We take the elevator all the way up to the top floor—to our office—and then he takes me into the emergency stairwell that has roof access. On the rooftop, we’re met with a cold breeze.