exchange is the way our bodies move with the bike, how Turk’s arms are snug around me. I close my eyes and imagine he is someone else.
And then we stop.
The handlebars retract and Turk leaps off the motorcycle, landing with both feet firmly on the ground. I slide less gracefully off the side and remove my helmet—my hair is wet, matted to my forehead. I scrape my fingers through it as Turk watches me.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing. Nice to meet you, Aria.”
He’s about to remount when I stop him. “Wait,” I say, my hand on his arm. “I need to ask you something.”
“About?”
“Hunter.” He smiles knowingly, and the look on his face tellsme he’s been expecting this. “I know you two are friends,” I say, “and …”
“You don’t know anything about him?”
“Exactly.”
“There’s not much to know.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Turk shrugs. “Hunter’s a mysterious guy. If he wants to tell you something, he’ll tell you. If he doesn’t, he won’t.” Turk cradles the helmet he lent me under one of his arms. “But do yourself a favor. Just let things be. Forget about him.”
Forget . Something I am quite good at, apparently.
“Well, I appreciate the ride, at least,” I say softly.
“The pleasure was all mine,” Turk says. He straddles the motorcycle, places the helmet in his lap so he can use both hands, and starts the engine. “Be careful. You know what you’re doing?”
I glance at the POD a few steps away. His question makes it clear that he knows I gave him directions to Thomas’s apartment building and not my own. Granted, we live on opposite sides of the city, so it wouldn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out I’m heading in the wrong direction. But at least Turk isn’t trying to stop me from going.
“I’m fine. Thanks.” I point to the helmet. “Aren’t you going to wear that?” I yell over the roar of the cycle.
Turk only smirks. “Of course not.” He points to his Mohawk, which has somehow remained unharmed despite our travels. “I don’t want to mess up my hair.”
Then he’s gone, leaving behind a cloud of fast-fading sparks.
Thomas is surprised to see me. Which kind of figures, since it is around midnight.
“Aria?” He shoots an irritated glance at the manservant who ushered me in.
“They announced Ms. Rose on the intercom, sir. I assumed you had arranged to meet her.” He reminds me of my father’s man, Bartholomew—same white hair, same bland features.
“I did no such thing, Devlin,” Thomas says. His hair is messy tonight, without any gel. I like it more this way. “You should know better.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Devlin says, bowing his head.
Thomas is far from properly dressed—he’s wearing a pair of linen pajama pants. His shirt is unbuttoned, and he hides his chest by crossing his arms. It’s not the kind of chest that should be hidden: broad shoulders and sculpted pectorals lightly dusted with hair. His stomach is tight and flat. Thomas is more muscular than I imagined, more athletic.
I must be staring, because he reaches over, lifting my chin with his fingers so I’m looking at his face instead of his abdomen.
“What are you doing here, Aria?” He sounds almost unhappy.
“I—I wanted to see you.” Which is partly true, but not for the reasons I’m implying. I’m thankful for the cool air in his apartment after being outside in the deadly heat, but my pants and shirt are wet with sweat, and now I’m beginning to shiver.
Thomas purses his lips. “Do your parents know you’re here?”
“Of course not.” I reach out and touch his bicep. “Why does it matter? We didn’t care about them before, did we?” My voice hasgotten louder, but I can’t help it. “We need to talk, Thomas.” I look at Devlin. “Alone. It’s important.”
Thomas is silent, his face unreadable. Then Devlin says, “Shall I frisk her, sir?”
I step back. “You’re kidding, right? Why would I carry anything
And then we stop.
The handlebars retract and Turk leaps off the motorcycle, landing with both feet firmly on the ground. I slide less gracefully off the side and remove my helmet—my hair is wet, matted to my forehead. I scrape my fingers through it as Turk watches me.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing. Nice to meet you, Aria.”
He’s about to remount when I stop him. “Wait,” I say, my hand on his arm. “I need to ask you something.”
“About?”
“Hunter.” He smiles knowingly, and the look on his face tellsme he’s been expecting this. “I know you two are friends,” I say, “and …”
“You don’t know anything about him?”
“Exactly.”
“There’s not much to know.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Turk shrugs. “Hunter’s a mysterious guy. If he wants to tell you something, he’ll tell you. If he doesn’t, he won’t.” Turk cradles the helmet he lent me under one of his arms. “But do yourself a favor. Just let things be. Forget about him.”
Forget . Something I am quite good at, apparently.
“Well, I appreciate the ride, at least,” I say softly.
“The pleasure was all mine,” Turk says. He straddles the motorcycle, places the helmet in his lap so he can use both hands, and starts the engine. “Be careful. You know what you’re doing?”
I glance at the POD a few steps away. His question makes it clear that he knows I gave him directions to Thomas’s apartment building and not my own. Granted, we live on opposite sides of the city, so it wouldn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out I’m heading in the wrong direction. But at least Turk isn’t trying to stop me from going.
“I’m fine. Thanks.” I point to the helmet. “Aren’t you going to wear that?” I yell over the roar of the cycle.
Turk only smirks. “Of course not.” He points to his Mohawk, which has somehow remained unharmed despite our travels. “I don’t want to mess up my hair.”
Then he’s gone, leaving behind a cloud of fast-fading sparks.
Thomas is surprised to see me. Which kind of figures, since it is around midnight.
“Aria?” He shoots an irritated glance at the manservant who ushered me in.
“They announced Ms. Rose on the intercom, sir. I assumed you had arranged to meet her.” He reminds me of my father’s man, Bartholomew—same white hair, same bland features.
“I did no such thing, Devlin,” Thomas says. His hair is messy tonight, without any gel. I like it more this way. “You should know better.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Devlin says, bowing his head.
Thomas is far from properly dressed—he’s wearing a pair of linen pajama pants. His shirt is unbuttoned, and he hides his chest by crossing his arms. It’s not the kind of chest that should be hidden: broad shoulders and sculpted pectorals lightly dusted with hair. His stomach is tight and flat. Thomas is more muscular than I imagined, more athletic.
I must be staring, because he reaches over, lifting my chin with his fingers so I’m looking at his face instead of his abdomen.
“What are you doing here, Aria?” He sounds almost unhappy.
“I—I wanted to see you.” Which is partly true, but not for the reasons I’m implying. I’m thankful for the cool air in his apartment after being outside in the deadly heat, but my pants and shirt are wet with sweat, and now I’m beginning to shiver.
Thomas purses his lips. “Do your parents know you’re here?”
“Of course not.” I reach out and touch his bicep. “Why does it matter? We didn’t care about them before, did we?” My voice hasgotten louder, but I can’t help it. “We need to talk, Thomas.” I look at Devlin. “Alone. It’s important.”
Thomas is silent, his face unreadable. Then Devlin says, “Shall I frisk her, sir?”
I step back. “You’re kidding, right? Why would I carry anything
Similar Books
