Sinful Protector (Roughshod Rollers MC 2)

He nods and hands me a helmet that he had clipped to the back. He helps me put it on; it’s heavy and clunky, and just a little too big for me, but Kyle tightens it so that it won’t fall off. Then he drags a leather jacket out and throws it at me.

“Added protection,” he explains when I look at him surprised. “It’ll be too big because it’s one of my old jackets, but it should help with the wind, too.”

“Thanks,” I say, touched.

I shrug the jacket on. It’s plain black, and it’s well worn. It’s also miles too big for me, but I roll the sleeves up and zip the front up.

Then I face the motorbike. Up close, it’s huge. It’s gleaming and black, and I can see Kyle takes very good care of it.

“Want some help?” Kyle asks, offering me a hand. “Just grab my arm and swing your leg over.”

I do as he says. It’s like mounting a bicycle, something I haven’t done in many years. The seat is wide and my legs settle on either side of it.

“Scoot up and wrap your arms around my waist,” Kyle says, turning back to face the front. My stomach clenches as I realize that I’m really about to do this. “And make sure your visor is down. You don’t want anything to get in your eyes. I’ll take it slow, alright? You’re safe with me, I promise.”

I lift a shaky hand and flip the visor down, then wrap my arms tightly around Kyle’s waist.

“Okay, let’s go,” I say.

“We’re not going far,” he promises.

Then he starts the engine. It roars to life beneath me, making me jump, and the entire machine trembles. My breath catches, and I suddenly don’t want to do this anymore.

But it’s too late. Kyle kicks off the curb, and suddenly we’re riding down the street. My arms tighten so hard around Kyle that I’m probably leaving bruises, but he doesn’t say anything at all. I close my eyes tightly, trying to gulp in deep breaths.

I’m panicking. It’s hard not to remember, suddenly, the phone call that told us my father had been in an accident, and the rush to hospital only to find out that he was already dead. For so many years I had blamed the motorcycle for the accident; if my father had only been in a car, not on one of these death traps, he might still be alive.

Slowly, though, the tight feeling in my chest begins to fade. I can feel Kyle breathing, I’m pressed so close to him, and I concentrate on the movement of his body instead. The memories fade and I blink my eyes open.

“How are you doing?” Kyle calls to me.

“O-okay!” I yell back over the wind.

And, surprisingly, it isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I draw in a deep, shaky breath. It really is just like riding a bike…just one that is large, powerful, fast and loud. Trembling slightly, I sit up.

The wind catches my hair and the world is whizzing past. We’re not going very fast and I can see each face that we pass and read all the signs on the side of the road. Kyle is riding carefully, slowing down as he goes around the corners and turning his head constantly to look for hazards. He’s being careful.

That, more than anything, reassures me. Kyle isn’t going to let me down. He promised I was safe with him, and I believe him.

By the time we pull up in front of a brightly lit restaurant, I feel I can breathe easier. It wasn’t the most fun thing in the world to do…but I can see why Kyle likes it. There was something freeing about having the wind in my hair and no car walls enclosing me.

I’m the first off the bike, and I almost stumble when I hit the ground, my legs shaky. Kyle puts a bracing hand on my elbow.

“Careful,” he says, pulling his helmet off. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” I say with a smile.

I pull my own helmet off, grimacing as my hair sticks to my face. So much for brushing it nicely. I try and bat it down, wishing I had thought to put a brush in my bag. Then I slip the large jacket off.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“I phoned around and made a booking at this Italian restaurant,” Kyle says with a small smile. “Is that okay?”

“That’s perfect,” I say.

Kyle hesitates, and then he slips his own jacket off, revealing another coat, this one blue, underneath.

“Most places don’t like me walking in with my club’s symbol on my jacket,” he explains, folding it up tightly and placing it in a compartment under the seat. “Give me a second to lock up.”