by Emma Nichole
My stomach falls to my feet and my heart jumps into my throat.
If I thought he was scrumptious before, the man before me is downright delectable.
He’s wearing dark washed blue jeans and a crisp white button-down. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, once again showing off his beautiful ink, and his short hair is styled messily. Like he just woke up like this, but it’s perfect.
“Wow, Faith. You look…wow.”
“Thank you. You clean up pretty nicely yourself.” I clear my throat. “So should we go?”
“Yes, but you’ll need something first.” He turns to pick up something from the steps and holds it out to me.
“Um…what?”
I stare at the pale purple motorcycle helmet he is offering me like it has thorns.
“You’re going to need this if we are going to go anywhere.” He gives it another little wiggle.
“You want me to go on the bike with you?” I reach out and take the helmet with both hands. “And why do you have a purple helmet?”
“Well, yes, I’d love to take you for a ride on my bike, and as for the helmet, I went out earlier today and got one for you. I only have the one for me, so I figured you’d need one.”
“Purple?”
“I saw the color of your flowers on your tattoo, on the porch that day. I thought if you liked the color enough to have it on your body forever, it was a safe choice.”
I look down at the front of my right thigh to my one and only tattoo. A pale purple orchid.
I got it five years ago as a reminder to be strong. To never live in the past and to be free of anything that could hold me down.
And the fact he used it as inspiration makes me tingle from head to toe.
“I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before.”
“Lucky for you. I’m a pro.”
He offers me his hand and with only a small hesitation, I take it.
His touch is soft, despite how strong his hands feel. They are warm and the slide of his skin against mine is actually very distracting.
“You’ll have to show me how to properly wear this thing,” I say, as we approach his bike.
“I got you a half helmet.” He takes it from my hands and unbuckles the chin-strap before gently placing it on my head. “It protects the crown and sides of your head but your face is not covered. The full head kind can feel claustrophobic to beginners.”
He snaps the buckle under my chin then pulls it just a bit until it’s snug. I watch his face intently as he makes sure everything is as it should be to protect my head.
“How’s that?” he asks, as he places his hand on top of the helmet. “Comfortable? Too tight?”
“It’s perfect.” I take a look at the motorcycle again. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Faith, this is Sasha.” He caresses the front of the bike. “And she’s my pride and joy. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her, so yes, I know what I’m doing.”
“Did you name your motorcycle, Sasha?” I say, covering my mouth a bit to hide my laugh.
“Is that funny?”
I shake my head, pushing my lips tightly together until a laugh I can’t contain bursts out. “It’s hilarious. Oh my God.”
“You’re making fun of me,” he says with a grin.
“I mean, you named your motorcycle Sasha. It sounds like a porn name. In fact, I’m pretty sure there are many porn stars named Sasha.”
“That’s the idea. She’s sexy. She deserves a sexy name,” he deadpans.
“Well then…let’s ride Sasha, shall we?” I offer.
“That brought an image to my mind that I can’t get out now. Thank you.” He laughs. “All right, give me your hand. I’ll hoist you up. Put your foot here,” he points to a small footrest, “and throw your other leg over then sit.”
“Don’t let me fall.”
“Never.”
He takes my hand and I place one foot as instructed then his free hand curls at my waist, helping me push into the air, and I swing my leg over then sink, settling down on the seat.
I hold my arms out instinctually, trying to balance.
“I’ve got it steady. You won’t tip over.”
I lower my arms and slide my hands down my thighs, an act I catch him watching.
“Where do I hold on?”
“You’ll hold on to me. That’s the safest place for you.”
“Are you sure? You give off a dangerous vibe,” I tease. “Okay, I guess I need to tell you the address to the restaurant? For GPS?”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cell phone, passing it to me.
“Go ahead and put it into the navigation.”
I press the button to make the screen come to life. There’s just a blank, black screen as his background and all of his apps seem pretty normal. I try not to look to hard, so he doesn’t think I’m snooping, and I’m typing the address into Google Maps when it vibrates in my hands. An incoming text rolls over the top of the screen.
Jennifer: Are you in town? I’ve been dreaming of your cock.
If I rolled my eyes any harder, they’d be stuck there.
I pass the phone back to him and say, “Done. Oh, and Jennifer texted. She is dreaming of your cock. Her words.”
“What?” He opens up the text app and sighs. “Jesus. I’m sorry.”
“It’s none of my business.” I hold up my hands.
“She’s just a friend.”
“With benefits, clearly.” I try to push down that very surprising and unwelcome sting of jealousy.
“Not for awhile. I cut it off, or…I stopped texting rather. She was too needy.”
“I see.”
“That sounded worse than I meant it to. Let’s pretend that little detour never happened, okay? Now, remember, arms around me.”
The reality of that sinks in as he straddles the bike and slips his helmet on. I can feel the heat of his body in front of me. It’s more overwhelming than the Southern heat around us. His scent sinks into my pores.
Pine with a woodsy twist and a bit of citrus. It’s yummy. I find myself itching to lean forward and inhale deeply. It reminds me of an oil blend I use on days I want to be soothed.
He reaches back and takes my wrists in each of his hands, pulling my arms around his middle.
“You’ll have to scoot closer.” He gives me a tug until my breasts are pressed into his back and my thighs rest against his waist.
“Ohh,” I squeak out in surprise.
“Relax, I don’t bite.” He turns and I think I hear him say something before he turns on the engine, causing the bike to roar to life, vibrating underneath us.
I give him a squeeze and a nod when he gives me a thumbs-up, asking if I’m ready.
He twists the throttle and just like that, we are off.
He blazes down the street toward the neighborhood entrance then makes a right turn onto the main highway with ease.
Immediately, I know why people enjoy riding. There’s a peace, a sense of calm that engulfs you in a bubble when you reach a certain speed.
I feel him reach back and pat my leg. He’s checking in on me. I smile wide so he knows I’m okay. In fact, I’m perfect.
Falcon
Faith isn’t the first woman I’ve had on the back of my motorcycle. In fact, there’ve been many before her, but this is the first time I’ve felt this intense pride about it. She looks so good on it. Like she belongs there. I keep glancing into the side mirrors to catch a glimpse of her face, and there’s been a smile plastered there the entire time.
I won’t lie, I ignored the GPS and let it reroute us a few times because I wasn’t ready for the ride to end. I think she noticed, but she didn’t say a word. She just soaked up the sun and the warm air.
I realize I don’t know shit about her, except for the fact she has beautiful eyes, an amazing body, and she has this way about her that makes me want to get to know her, so that’s what I fully intend to do.
Would I love to
fuck her? Absolutely. What red-blooded male wouldn’t? But for the first time in a long time, I just crave her presence. Nothing more.
I pull onto a side street and she releases me long enough to point to a parking meter to the right. I carefully wind my way through the cars and pull to a stop, carefully lean us to the left, then engage the kickstand.
I pull off my helmet and slide my hand through my hair, then turn back to look at her. “You all good back there?”
“That was amazing!” She bounces a little. “Such a rush. No wonder these things have cult-like followings.”
“Hey, I resent that remark a little.” I take her hand and help her carefully dismount the bike.
She reaches up and unbuckles her helmet then lifts it off, shaking her head a little to make her hair fall back into place. Her cheeks are flushed from the wind. She looks beautiful.
“I’m starving.” She adjusts her top a little. “Do we leave our helmets here or…?”
I take hers from her hands hold it with mine. “Not unless you want it stolen. We bring them with us.”
“No one would steal your helmet. Haven’t you ever heard of Southern hospitality? It’s a real thing.” She places her hands on her hips and it’s so goddamn adorable.
“Not risking my favorite helmet for it.” I laugh. “Now, where are you taking me?”
She turns around and points to a small restaurant at the end of the building across the street.
“I’m taking you to get the best fried chicken in town,” she says.
“Fried chicken? You’re a woman after my own heart. Most women I take out want salad or something that barely qualifies as actual food.”
“Oh, not me. I want all the calories, all the fat, all the grease. If I’m eating out, I want to enjoy it.”
The wind catches her hair and blows it across her face, sending the scent of her shampoo wafting into my nose. It’s sweet and slightly florally.
Christ, I’m in trouble.
***
We make our way into the restaurant and wait to be seated. I take a quick look around while we wait.
It looks like it used to be some kind of old warehouse or factory that they’ve renovated and turned into a two-story restaurant. It’s nice, homey, and has kept that rugged aesthetic. Photos line the walls: of Savannah and the building in various stages of the early 1900s and even more modern years.
“This used to be a textile mill, cotton mostly, I think,” I hear Faith say, as she steps up beside me to look at a photo on the wall.
“That’s interesting, actually. I like how they kept the look when they renovated.”
“Everyone here wants to preserve the history as long as they possibly can. You’ll see that if you’re able to look around the city more while you’re here.”
“Will you be my tour guide?” I give her a wink.
“Maybe.” She bites her lip as the buzzer in her hand sounds. “Table’s ready.”
***
“Holy hell.” I lean back and rub my hand over my stomach. “How do you have room for anything else?” I ask, as she polishes off a chicken thigh.
“I like food,” she says with a shrug, as if that explains it all.
“I see that. And with food this good, who wouldn’t?”
The meal was phenomenal: fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, green beans, corn bread. A traditional soul filled, Southern meal unlike anything I’ve ever had before.
“Room for dessert?”
“Hell no. My trainer is going to have my ass as it is after this.”
“How much do you really train for what you do? In my head, I feel like you live in the gym.” She takes a sip of her water while she waits for me to answer.
“I’ve gotten my routine pretty figured out. I don’t live at the gym, but leading into a fight, I train more than usual, and I do try to hit the gym at least once a day.”
“What will you do while you’re here?”
“I was hoping I could find a gym or something. Know of any good ones?” I lean forward and place my elbows on the table.
“A couple, yeah. I have a friend who owns one. I can write down the address for you.”
“That would be great.”
“So what does training consist of? Sorry for the twenty questions, I’m just a curious person.”
I can’t stop the smile that spreads on my face. “Well, I lift a lot, run, and I spar.”
“Spar?”
“Yeah, I fight with someone in a ring to practice. It helps my reflexes and positioning.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It can be, but it’s worth it. Actual fights in the Octagon are a rush. The adrenaline, the crowd, the lights. It’s why I do what I do. I truly enjoy it.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
Her question causes a barrage of memories to come flooding back all at once, most of which I don’t want to talk about. Not even a little. Without even realizing or even making the choice, I raise my hand up to the back of my head and rub.
“A while. I started when I was young. Underground fights for money and the right people saw, I guess. I was lucky. I try to never forget that.”
“Why fighting though? It doesn’t seem like it would be the first thing someone would choose.”
“I was good at it and I was making money.” I clear my throat. “My parents passed when I was young, I don’t know if Nora has talked about this with you or not, but I had to step up. I kind of became a parent to her. Fighting was my most consistent way to make bank.”
I watch her lean back in her seat and her brows wrinkle just a bit like she’s deep in thought.
“Nora mentioned it on a drunken wine evening, yes, but I didn’t press for details.”
“It’s messy. You don’t want the details.”
“We all have messy pasts.” She licks her lips like she instantly regrets the words.
“So tell me about you. How did you end up working with Case?” I cross my arms over my chest and really watch her speak.
“It’s a long story, but the short version is I moved to Savannah about five years ago from Nashville, and I was lucky enough find my house. My parents helped me get moved in and settled with the mortgage for a month, but after that, I was on my own. I needed a job. One day, I saw Case outside mowing his lawn, and Arya came over to say hello. I got to know Case, he became like a brother to me and got me the job.”
“Why’d you leave Tennessee?”
I can see by the immediate shift in her posture that it’s something she doesn’t want to talk about, so I don’t push when she gives me a half answer.
“Just wanted a change. I love this city.” She doesn’t get any more specific than that. She just shifts in her seat a bit and takes another sip of her water before swiftly changing the subject. “Are you sure you don’t want dessert? The best ice cream shop in Georgia is just down the street. We could walk.”
“How can I say no to spending more time with the prettiest girl in the room?” I reach back to fish my wallet out of my pocket.
“Does that line work on the girls in California?” she asks.
“Is it working on you?” I give my credit card to the server when she approaches.
“Not even a little, buddy. I need something better than that.” She stands and straightens her shorts a bit, drawing my eye right back to the tattoo.
This is the best view I’ve had of it thus far. I try not to gawk, but I’m intrigued. It’s a single orchid, in the same lilac color as her helmet, with splashes of watercolor all around it. It’s intricate yet simple. It’s visually stunning against her creamy, pale skin.
My attention is pulled away by the server returning with my card and receipt. I scribble the tip and sign my name before stuffing my wallet back into my pocket.
“Shall we?” I ask.
“I’ll lead the way.”
I place my hand at the small of her back as we weave through the crowd toward the entrance. She stills for a moment when our
skin makes contact but she settles soon after.
We barely cross the doorway to the sidewalk outside when I hear someone shouting from a few feet behind me.
“Falcon! Woo wooooo Falcon!”
I know, without even looking, it’s a fan. I turn toward the voice and see a man, probably early twenties, clearly intoxicated, and give him a nod, acknowledging that I’ve seen him.
Please don’t come over here. Please don’t come over here.
And thankfully, he doesn’t. He continues the opposite way down the street, leaving me alone with my date.
“What’s that like?”
“What?”
“Having people recognize you like that?”
We walk down the sidewalk close together so we can still hear one another speak.
“It doesn’t happen a lot. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful to be in a position where people want to talk to me sometimes on the street, but there’s a time and a place. I’m thankful he didn’t do more than he did.”
“I don’t think I would like it very much. I’m a private person.”
“So am I, which is why I weigh the pros and cons of my career occasionally. It puts me in the limelight sometimes in a way that, while I eat it up in the moment, isn’t exactly my favorite.”
“Have you ever thought about quitting? Maybe doing something else?”
I let the question swirl around in my brain for a bit before answering.
“I teach self-defense classes at a local rec center every other weekend for little kids and teens. I think if I were to ever stop fighting, that’s what I would want to do.”
And it’s true. I love doing that. It makes me feel like I’m doing something positive with my skills, other than making another grown man bleed in front of ten thousand people.
“Really?”
“Does that surprise you?”
“Well, yeah, it does a little. That was honestly the last thing I thought you’d say. I’ve always wanted to take self-defense classes.”
This is it. This is your chance to see more of her, Falcon. Do it.
“Then it’s your lucky day. A professional is willing to train you, for free, for the entire three weeks he’s here.”