“Still.” I glance at him, the muffled sound of underwater muting my hearing in one ear. His gaze is roaming over my stretched out body. My chest, stomach, legs. A burst of heat erupts in my belly. I’d be one sorry liar if I claimed having this guy’s attention wasn’t a rush.
He runs his wet hands over his hair, slicking it back from his face. The white-blond strands darken to a deep yellow, the contrast transforming his hazel irises to a bright gold. “I don’t consider myself a hardcore biker,” he says. “I don’t travel the country, or run in a gang. I’m definitely not involved in drugs.” I hike my eyebrows, and he adds, “Anymore. So yeah, the gang thing isn’t for me. I’m more about customizing my rides, building something I can enjoy on my time. Besides, I’d actually have to leave Florida to join a gang. That’s not happening.”
My toes sink into the muddy floor of the lake as I gain my balance, stand and face Boone.
“Most MCs aren’t like that,” I say. “Well, maybe not most. But a lot of them aren’t. The misconceptions about drug couriers and mob activity has reached urban legend status. There’s quite a few gangs that are just about the lifestyle.” Even though Lone Breed does dabble in the outlawed trades…I leave my insider knowledge out of the debate. What I said is true. For the most part.
Boone rubs his shoulder, his head tilted, eyes studying me closely. “Uh…wow. You’re pretty passionate about bikers.” He bites his lip, looking like he wants to probe, but says instead, “MCs?”
“Outlaw motorcycle clubs. It sounds more taboo or illegal than it is.” I swim closer to him. “It’s just any biker club or gang that’s not endorsed by the AMA.”
He parts his mouth, but I beat him to his next question. “American Motorcyclist Association.”
“Ah. And you know all this why?”
We’re veering dangerously close to that invisible line. The one neither of us want to cross. But it’s been a little too long since I’ve had any contact with that part of my life—and it’s a huge part. The hugest. Talking about it now, with him, makes everything feel…safe. Like I’m closer to getting back there.
I give him a rueful smile and say, “Had a school project once. Lots of research.” Which isn’t complete BS. I did have a project on American associations, and I did research by asking my dad a million questions. I was nine at the time. My father never sugarcoated anything; he told me the truth about his lifestyle from the day I was born.
Going into that with Boone, though, won’t happen. He can have the clipped version. “So what’s holding you back from leaving?” I ask, changing the subject. When he looks even more lost, I say, “Before my monologue on all things bikers, you said you’d have to leave Florida. So, why don’t you?”
This question might edge close to breaking our silent agreement, but he’s the one who offered the first shred of information on himself. It was hanging out there, and I can’t help but snag the thread.
He wades closer to me, a foot between us now. I can almost feel his body heat rippling toward me. The water is colder because of it. “Commitments,” he says simply. “The kind I have to see through.”
I nod. I have some of those myself. “Well, commitments aside, if you could jump on your bike and go anywhere, where would that be?”
He gives a short chuckle and shakes his head, like he’s never considered the possibility. A sinking feeling, like homesickness, settles in my stomach. The thought of being bound to one place makes me queasy.
I squint. “Is that an outrageous question?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, isn’t everywhere pretty much the same?” He lowers himself into the water, submerging his shoulders. His lips rest just above the surface. I have an innate feeling he’s using the water to shield himself from my invasiveness.
It’s so transparent—like something a kid would do.
“Not at all,” I say. “And the awesome thing about going somewhere new, seeing things you’ve never seen before, is it’s impossible to stay the same. Every place changes you a little. Some more than others. You have to be a real stubborn ass to travel the world and keep toting around the same baggage.”
His golden gaze holds mine for an almost unnerving amount of time before he blinks and looks away. I release a clipped breath, chilled by him and the cool water.
I don’t like this. With any guy, anywhere, I’m always in control. I call the shots. Something is off in a major way, and I feel the instinctive need to flee. Get out before the trap springs.
“South Dakota,” he finally says. “Sturgis. I guess I’d go there. They got this—”
“Biker rally,” I say, my lips spreading into a wide smile.
He laughs. “Of course. I forgot you were the expert. You probably researched all about it for your project.”
“Yeah, well, I did a little bit more than research. I’ve gone before.” Numerous times. And it was Lone Breed’s next destination right after Daytona for this year’s rally. Which is now over, and I missed it, since I was in rehab. This is a sore reminder.
“You’ve actually gone before?” He shakes his head, then says, “I don’t know whether to be jealous, impressed, or intimidated.”
“All of the above?” I offer with a grin. Was that flirtatious?
When he smiles, his body inching closer to mine, I decide it was. I need to stop.
“Well, I think it happens in early August,” he says, either not noticing my discomfort or purposely avoiding it. “I missed it this year, regardless. Probation prohibits you from leaving the state.”
“Right. So I’ve heard.” I lift my feet from the slippery bottom and tread water, putting some distance between us.