Blood Cure (Blood Type 3)

There was always more to do. But not today.

Today, their cares were more singular. And she could finally breathe in the crisp summer air and actually enjoy it.

They were nearly to their destination, when Beckham suddenly pulled off of the road.

“What are we doing?” Reyna called over the sound of the motor.

Beckham didn’t reply. His silences were just as weighted as they had always been. She could have reached into his emotions, but she could read him without it. And then sometimes it was fun to guess.

He came to a stop and stepped off of his beat of a motorcycle. “Your turn.”

Reyna’s eyes widened in horror. “What?”

“I’ve been teaching you to drive for months, Little One. You can handle her.”

“Um…your motorcycle? You think I can handle your precious beautiful motorcycle? I nearly crashed the Town Car. I thought Gerard was going to kill me.”

Beckham’s lips lifted at the corners at the memory. “Are you suggesting that you don’t want to drive my motorcycle?”

“Are you out of your mind? Of course I want to! Give me anything that goes fast and I’m in!”

“Oh, I know,” he said with a feral look in his eyes.

Reyna blushed. “That too.”

Beckham immediately launched into an everything-you-need-to-know-about-a-motorcycle speech. It was probably the most he’d ever said at once. And by the time he was done, her eyes were a little glazed over. She’d always wanted to learn to drive, but she had needed a car to do that. Now that the worst was over, she hoped, she was finally getting that opportunity. And she really wasn’t as bad as all that. Hopefully the motorcycle would be okay too.

It took her a few tries to get the basics down. She only landed in the gravel once and she was pretty proud of that. Beckham had actually rolled his eyes at her. Priceless.

“Aren’t you worried we’re going to miss our appointment?” Reyna asked.

“It was moved back. I thought it a prudent opportunity.”

She laughed. Of course he had.

“I think you’re ready,” Beckham finally said an infinite amount of time later.

“Yeah?” she gasped.

He nodded and then kicked his leg over the back of the bike. His thighs pressed against hers, his hands sliding up her waist and over her arms.

“Easy does it.”

She started the motorcycle just as he’d instructed and then eased it back onto the open highway. Beckham was close enough to take control if he had to, but gave her enough room to breathe. It was a perfect example of their relationship. The only time she didn’t argue with him taking control was in the bedroom. And even then…

His lips pressed into her neck. “You’re doing great.”

Reyna tilted her head back and laughed into the summer air. This was bliss. Beckham pressing into her back, the road open before her, and no cares in the world.

It was another twenty minutes before they reached their destination. Beckham helped her bring the bike to a stop and park it up front. She jumped off, feeling alive and wild from the adrenaline. She handed her helmet to Beckham and offered him a kiss. He obliged.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Are you?” she countered, suddenly sobering.

This was the hardest part of their week. Every week.

It didn’t matter what else they had to face at work, with Visage, with the cure. Worse even than the fact that they never found Rowland despite their best efforts. Nothing was as troublesome as standing outside of the mental facility that Bronwyn had been placed into almost six months earlier.

Beckham nodded and took her hand. They walked into the cozy home that was the best place in the state. It didn’t look like a hospital, which Reyna appreciated after all her time in Visage’s sterile rooms. There was wicker furniture on the porch. The interior was soft and feminine, painted in calming colors.

The same woman, Martha, who was always there, checked them in. “Beckham, Reyna, we’re so glad to see you today.”

“How’s she doing?” Reyna asked.

“It’s not a good day. But hopefully your presence will calm her down.”

Reyna clutched Beckham’s hand. The bad days were the hardest on him. He took full responsibility for what he had done to her. And it ate at him that there was nothing he could do to fix what he had broken. Except be there as often as he could and get her the help she’d always needed.

“You want me to show you the way?” Martha asked kindly.

“We can go on our own,” Reyna said. “Thank you.”

Reyna took his hand and guided him down the hallway. Bronwyn’s room was at the end of a hallway. There was no lock on her door, a big upgrade from where she’d been before. But all of the exterior doors had them, just in case.

They glanced through the small window and peered in on her sitting on a couch. She had a cross-stitch in her lap and was making gorgeous flowers come to life out of needlepoint.