Tied (All Torn Up 2)

As I walk, the sun disappears completely, and the sky becomes darker and darker, and I haven’t even reached the town yet, proving that my ability to judge time and distance are still incredibly skewed. I honestly don’t have a clue how far away I am from Merryfield, or Tyler’s house, or the small town. There are very few streetlights and houses on this road, and they’re quite a distance apart, and that’s not easing my worries. I refocus that fear to anger, which is an easier emotion for me to deal with.

Why couldn’t my parents let me have a cell phone?

Why couldn’t my parents be open to the idea of me driving and having a car?

Instead, I’m now walking around in the dark, with no idea how far away I am from my own apartment, with no way to call for a ride.

I always seem to be finding myself trapped and alone in some way or another, and I can’t help wondering if it’s part of my destiny or some cruel stroke of recurring bad luck that’s going to plague me for my entire life.

The sound of an engine approaching from behind me fills the silence, and headlights illuminate the road. I’m not sure if I should hide in the trees on the side of the road or try to get their attention and ask for a ride. Can I trust a random stranger to drive me home?

No. It could be another bad man.

Tucking my head down, I continue to walk, but as the engine gets closer, I realize it’s a motorcycle and not a car. It passes me with a loud rumble then pulls over to the side of the road a few feet ahead of me. I stop walking when the engine turns off and the red brake light goes with it. The rider kicks the kickstand down and swings his leg over the bike. Even though he’s nothing but a large shadowy figure in the dark, I know it’s Tyler Grace. I can feel his vibe. He walks toward me, the metal buckles on his boots making a faint clink with each step.

“I keep finding women,” he muses, stopping about two feet in front of me, close enough for me to see he’s wearing the half-skull mask that I saw him wearing that day at the traffic light. “What do you think that means?”

“I’m not sure,” I reply, wondering who else he’s found and why he wears the scary masks when he rides.

“Well, at least you didn’t run.”

“Why would I run from you?”

His eyes stay on mine as he pulls the mask off then removes his leather jacket. “You blind? Can’t see my fucked-up face? Or the psycho mask? Take your pick.”

His words both shock and hurt me. Obviously, he’s much bolder with his thoughts in the dark.

“You don’t—”

He thrusts the jacket toward me. “Put this on.”

“Why?”

“’Cuz you’ll freeze your ass off on the bike.”

I squeak at the mere idea of getting on the back of that motorcycle with him, being forced to be so close to him, to have to put my hands on him to keep from falling off. Oh my God. I think I’d rather keep walking.

He steps closer, and I’m still so lost in the anxiety of either getting on the bike with him or walking for who knows how long that I let him take my backpack out of my hand, and I slip my arms through the sleeves of his jacket. It easily fits over my own, the sleeves hanging inches past my fingertips. Warmth, tobacco, and cedar linger in the worn leather, encapsulating me in his raw masculinity as if I’ve stepped inside him. Slowly, he drags the front zipper up, sending comforting warmth through my veins. His fingers shake —maybe from the cold —and linger at the pulse of my throat, at the end of the zipper trail. I feel like a little girl again—safe, protected, taken care of.

Innocent.

“Won’t you be cold now?” I ask, my voice quivering. “Without your jacket?”

“I’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

I follow him to his bike, my legs weak and wobbly with growing apprehension. I’ve never been on a motorcycle before. I haven’t even been on a bicycle since I was a little girl. Even scarier than that is how close I’ll be to him. The seat is small, with no backrest and nothing to hold onto. Except him.

“You gonna pass out?” he asks, eyeing me as I shift my weight from one foot to the other.

“I might,” I admit.

“I’ll go slow,” he says, then… “But you never know…you might like it fast, too.”

I smile weakly, wondering why my heart has suddenly started to beat faster and my cheeks are flushing with heat even though I’m cold. Something about his voice…his words…

He throws his leg over the bike, settles onto the seat, and kicks the kickstand up in one smooth, natural motion, like the bike is an extension of his body. His head tilts toward me as he pulls out a pack of cigarettes, taps one out, and lights it up with the same silver lighter he always seems to have in his pocket. “All aboard, sugar.”