There You Stand (Between Breaths 5)

I began hobbling to the door. “Appreciate all of your help, Jude.”

I was having some difficulty but trying not to show it. I kept my face turned away so he didn’t see my pained expression but there was no way he couldn’t tell. Still I kept on going. I had to walk Chopper back home.

He handed me the leash, I thanked him again, and then walked out.

I allowed his door to slam behind me and I felt a sting of relief as well as melancholy. I limped partway down the drive before I heard his voice. “Cory.”

Crap, he was feeling bad. I should’ve tried to hobble less. I turned to look at him.

“Wait,” he said, thrusting open the screen door.

My eyebrows arched. What did he think he was going to do? Push me home on his skateboard?

I heard a noise and realized it was the automatic garage door.

It lifted, revealing a vintage red motorcycle.

Chapter Eight

I staggered back, more than a little disoriented because it hit too close to home. David had owned a red motorcycle. It was a Suzuki Boulevard and this looked like a used Harley Sportster, but still.

David and I would take off on the open road, riding side by side—it was our thing. And I just . . . fuck. Why seeing that motorcycle was affecting me like this, I didn’t know. It had been three years . . . but it came rushing back as if it was only yesterday.

I looked down the driveway, hoping to make my escape. I didn’t care how far the distance was from my apartment; I was getting the hell away from here and these too-fresh memories.

I heard the creak of the wheels as he began rolling the bike onto the pavement. Maybe this ride belonged to the neighbor who owned the house up front or to one of the Disciples. “Is that Sportster yours?”

He nodded, moving the front wheel toward me. “Bought it from some bloke a couple years ago. It’s not the best option but it’ll get you home the quickest.”

My heart was in my throat. “I’ve . . . I’ve never seen you on that thing.”

He shrugged. “Prefer my board.”

I shoved my fingers through my hair, completely staving off my panic. “I’ll pass. Anyway, I’ve got Chopper.”

“Chopper will stay with me,” he said all authoritarian and practical. “You’ll get him in the morning.”

What the fuck? Suddenly Mr. Wordy had it all figured out. “No, man, it’s all cool.”

But my words had fallen on deaf ears because he was already walking Chopper to his door and placing him inside the house. When Chopper turned to protest, he raised his hand in a silent signal, and the dog immediately sat down on his haunches.

I shook my head to clear the confusion from my brain.

“Let’s go.” Jude tipped his chin to the bike. “You’re in bad shape, mate.”

The plan was convoluted because I would have to circle back just to get Chopper in the morning. All I did was take the damn dog for a walk. I swear that ridiculous mutt causes more trouble than he’s worth.

All at once, my chest tightened and my breath stalled in my lungs. Jude’s eyes widened like he had no idea what the hell to do with me as I bent at the waist and attempted to inhale through my mouth.

“Sorry, give me a minute,” I said in a wheezy voice.

Hands on my knees, I caught my breath, suddenly feeling humiliated and more than a little sore. I cringed and straightened myself, refusing to meet his gaze. I couldn’t even begin to guess what in the hell I looked like at this point.

Dirty face. Bloody legs. Fucking panic attack.

But then I heard a noise low in Jude’s throat, as if he was trying to rein himself in as well. When my gaze darted to his face, his eyes were creased in concern, he was biting his bottom lip, and his hand was raised midair as if he were about to comfort me.

We stared at each other across the pavement for a long moment, before he turned, extended his leg, and sat down on the bike. He got down to business by turning the key to the start position and placing the bike in neutral. Except it failed to start.

“Sometimes you’ve got to pull the choke cable . . .” I said, because I knew from experience if a bike sat collecting dust, it could be difficult to get going. Especially a Sportster, which some consider the trickiest to ride because of the way the gas tank sits higher, throwing off the center of gravity.

On Jude’s second attempt, it roared to life. It sounded so powerful that I shivered.

I couldn’t get my limbs to move, even though I needed to in order to get home. The last time I’d been on the back of a hog was with David. And David was . . . everything.

I took a deep, steely breath. David was gone. Time to move on.

Jude sat back on the seat and looked pointedly at me. As if we had switched roles and he was the one egging me on. He knew that something was wrong. That I was struggling with his plan. He gaze swept to the street and concern flitted through his eyes. Like he was doing something he shouldn’t be doing and that made my stomach bottom out.

I stood frozen, not even remembering how to move. My leg was bent at the knee, using my other limb for support, because it was throbbing.

“Cory,” he said, and then my eyes darted to his lips. I couldn’t even help myself. The way he said my name was pure heaven.

I got myself together and climbed on back. This was only a damn ride home. My fingers lifted to the back of his shirt and gripped, which I knew would not be enough leverage to support me once he sped off. I slid forward on the seat, my crotch flush against his hips, and slipped my arms around his waist to his stomach.