Detour: A Creekwood Novel (Creekwood Series Book 1)

by A. Marie

  My joke falls flat as Coty’s eyes bore into mine. “I take care of what’s mine.”

  The intensity of his gaze, the promise of his words, the sudden heat that’s been missing since I stepped through his front door, the delicious coconut scented atmosphere—everything smashes together in an unescapable combination. Coty sees it in my wavering determination. I feel it in the invisible pull of his mere existence.

  The moment stretches, neither of us moving other than the labored rising and falling of our chests until Beckett bellows, “Let’s go!”

  Eyes wide, I recoil.

  Coty, unaffected, says, “Come with us.”

  A nervous laugh bubbles up outside of me. “Where?”

  “We’re going for our Sunday night ride. You should come.”

  “What? Like on a motorcycle?” I don’t even remember riding a regular bicycle, let alone adding in a high-speed motor.

  “No. On my motorcycle, with me.”

  Oh.

  That scenario worries me for a whole different reason. There’s danger, and then there’s danger.

  “Say you’ll come. You won’t regret it.”

  Referencing the motto above his bed is a cheap shot but I understand. Coty’s a risk taker. He lives his life doing what he loves. You can see it in the way he describes his life. His friends, his job, his hobbies—he’s truly fulfilled. I want that, instead of always doing what I have to. What I need to do to survive. I wish I had the freedom he does. And maybe I will one day. Maybe today’s another step toward a place where I can do things that not only make me feel alive but hopefully as carefree as Coty appears. But, does that step really need to be from the back of a two-wheeled death trap?

  Coty’s triumphant smile gives me my answer.

  CHAPTER 11

  Angela

  I agree to meet everyone downstairs after changing my outfit. Coty suggested dressing warmly despite the early summer heat raging well into the evening hours. My skinny black jeans with the knees ripped out, my pink and beige Adidas running shoes—far more flexible than my shell toes—and a gray hoodie thrown over my plain tee are a welcome relief after spending the afternoon in that ice chest the boys live in.

  Wobbly legs carry me across the lot, putting me directly in front of Coty’s black stallion of a bike as I take in my neighbors with new eyes. Gone are the casual outfits from earlier. All three are wearing thick motorcycle jackets, formfitting jeans, and seriously heavy-duty boots. Suddenly, I’m brought back to move-in day, the first time I saw the trio. Their faces masked by their helmets, I assumed the worst. I judged them before I even knew them. Guilt claws at my chest while I twist the strings at my neck between my fingers.

  Coty cocks his head to the side watching me with an unreadable expression.

  “Neighbor girl, we didn’t know you owned so many clothes. We only see you rocking your bikini and tiny outfits.”

  Beckett’s unzipped jacket reveals a crisp white shirt underneath that says Get On Your Knees Every Sunday.

  “What do you think I wear to school?”

  His face clouds over. “I don’t know. We only do our spying at the end of the day.”

  Both friends snap their heads to him, causing me to laugh clumsily. Creep much? Marc shakes his head, mounting his red motorcycle while pulling his helmet on simultaneously. Beckett shrugs unapologetically before following suit and lifting his visor.

  Coty whacks the back of it making Beckett flip him the bird, muttering, “It’s true.”

  I take a step backward. “Maybe I should sit this one out and go for a swim. You know, now that my audience is leaving.”

  Coty lurches forward, grabbing my front pocket, making me yelp. “Not a chance. You’re comin’.”

  “That’s what she said!”

  Now Coty’s the one flipping Beckett off. They’re more like brothers with their easy-going, comfortable bond. Even Marc, with his severe stare and aloof demeanor. He let loose a little during dinner but he’s back to his reserved side now, watching everything in earnest.

  Coty tugs one of my braids. “These are perfect. It’ll save you from getting helmet hair.”

  My eyebrows dip. “Helmet hair?” Normally I’d be embarrassed by my lack of knowledge on a topic and fake my way through until I figured it out on my own. With Coty though, his composed approach puts me at ease even as he lowers a black and white helmet over my head, careful not to catch my cartilage piercing in the process. Deft fingers fasten the chin strap before I even have to ask.

  “For guys, it’s similar to bed head, but for girls, it’s more like sex hair,” Beckett explains, using his hands flinging wildly around his head to demonstrate.

  All at once Coty stops his hands, meeting my eyes. The fire I see there matches the one stirring in my belly. He lightly brushes the side of my neck and I, unfortunately, gasp. The feather light stroke feels different than a simple touch. More significant. A reunion between two old friends desperate to meet again.

  “A few things.” Coty clears his throat, giving me some space. “I’ll get on first, then you get on after me wrapping your arms around my chest or stomach. You don’t want to let go at any time. If you have an itch or something, feel free to scratch it quickly, otherwise keep ahold of me.” He slips his own helmet on, lifting the visor to continue. “Every move you make, I feel and vice versa. We’ll be connected so just be mindful of your movements. Don’t lean. I’ll do all the leaning but where I go, you go, yeah?” I nod stiffly. “I’ve been riding for years and aside from a few minor wipe-outs on my dirt bike when I was younger, I’ve never had an accident. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

  I fill my lungs watching Coty situate himself on his bike before he reaches a hand out to me. He helps me aboard then shows me the pegs to place my feet. Once secure, I wrap my arms around his torso like a monkey clinging to a tree making him chuckle.

  “Don’t worry about gripping me too tight. I can take it, plus it makes things easier if we’re close.” He doesn’t bother loosening my hold but he does readjust my arms to rest lower on his stomach as he sticks the key in the ignition. “If at any time you feel uncomfortable, squeeze my thigh and I’ll pull over.”

  A thigh squeeze? That’s my exit strategy?

  “Are you sure you’ll feel it?”

  Head cranked over his shoulder, he says, “Trust me, I’ll notice.” Still sensing my reluctance, he grabs my helmet with his now gloved hand. “If you want to stop, I’ll stop. Simple. I’m not going to force you into anything you don’t want to do. I promised to keep you safe and I will. Okay?”

  The sincerity in his eyes pulls the assent straight from my mouth. “Okay.”

  He closes our visors then twists back around. As he does, I notice a small device attached to the side of his helmet. Reaching up, I feel mine has one, too.

  Beckett sees, saying, “Bluetooth speakers.”

  Coty grabs my hand, putting it back where it was then leans forward starting the bike up. The 45-degree angle makes my stomach lurch. With nothing other than another person to rely on, I shoot my hands out, bracing them on the gas tank in front of Coty’s seat. My arms still fully around Coty on each side, just holding my weight independently rather than fixed on him, I immediately feel better.

  Coty’s head rotates to the side again. “What’s wrong?”

  I give a humorless laugh. Where do I start? “I can’t do it. I just can’t sit that way.” Not only is the unnatural angle discombobulating, it feels like I’m literally handing Coty my mind, body, and soul to maneuver as he sees fit. I’m keeping some semblance of control whether he likes it or not. Either we go like this, or I don’t go at all.

  “Are you gonna fight me on everything?”

  I pop a shoulder. Probably.

  “Alright. We’ll try it your way but your arms will burn out fast like that.” I let that comment slide since he’s never seen me work a busy Saturday shift. “If you get tired, just grab onto me. I got you.”

  I s
ee Beckett shake his head out of the corner of my eye. “Dude, you got a live one there.”

  I bristle at the insinuation as Marc barks out, “We ridin’ or what?”

  All at once the motorcycles start up creating a whining buzz I’ve become accustomed to. From upstairs. Indoors. Out here though, it’s a whole different experience. The roaring hum isn’t just audible, I can feel it—everywhere. The vibration penetrates my skin, sinking its pulse into mine, until I can barely register it over my own shudders.

  Coty revs his engine a few times then reaches back to squeeze my thigh. Given his earlier instructions on a quick exit, I assume this is his way of telling me my time is up—that I’m now free to curl up in a ball at home and count carpet fibers while him and his friends have a terrifying night of fun—so I move to disembark when Coty, chuckling, brings both hands back to stop me. Shaking with laughter he points toward the street, indicating where we’re going. I drop my head against his shoulder blade as it continues to bob.

  Coty’s hands still on my thighs, he reaches under to grip the bottoms of both then drags me forward until water couldn’t slide between us. Plastered to him, my legs are forced to spread wider to accommodate our intimate position. I squeeze tight, tighter than before, scared my grip was lost along with my sanity the second my crotch touched him. I mean the man’s wearing jeans but she doesn’t care about an insignificant detail such as clothing. Blood pumps to the rhythm of the pulsating machine below, heading straight for where our bodies meet, making the connection that much more pronounced.

  Shit.

  Through muffled ears, I hear a collective shout of “Ride it!” I’m not exactly sure what ‘it’ is but before I can volunteer as tribute, we’re already moving, every part of my body closing around every part of Coty’s like a Venus fly trap. Coty tenses beneath my touch but doesn’t complain, letting me get comfortable. As comfortable as one can be riding on a hunk of metal with no seat belts, or general safety precautions, anyway. Fused together as one, we trail after Marc’s bike with Beckett’s vivid green monster bringing up the rear.

  Stopped at the first light, Coty flips his visor, turning his head slightly. “All good?”

  Nervous he won’t hear me, I nod. With a smack, his visor is back in place and we’re off again, flying down the crowded street causing me to squeal like the girl I am. Coty’s body rumbles between my arms.

  All at once music fills my helmet. Slowly peering over my shoulder, I see Beckett jerk his chin in my direction before speeding up next to us, then slowing back down into their zig-zag formation. Even through our helmets I can see the twinkle in his eye. He’s singing, laughing, teasing. All while blowing past the legal speed limit with little regard for his own safety, just like the others. This is downright crazy. But incredible, too. The three of them keep the same speed, same distance between bikes, same route, everything, all without uttering a single word. They just know what the other will do before they even do it, like a sixth sense. Watching them like this, their bond is undeniable. They’re in their element and it shows. Confident in their individual skills, they come together as a daunting team. They’re lucky to have found each other and I’m finally able to witness their unshakeable connection firsthand, not just from behind a cloudy peephole.

  Okay, so the boys might not be the only ones at Creekwood with stalker-like tendencies.

  We turn away from town until buildings disappear replaced by rolling hills covered in dirt and sagebrush. Miles and miles of sagebrush. Most people picture Washington as a green, rain-soaked forest. While that may be true for the northern half of the state, the southeastern section is much like the only batch of brownies my mother ever tried to make—lumpy in spots, cracked in others, under-baked brown, and dry as all hell. Unpalatable. To some. To the rest of us, it’s relaxing. Gazing out at the horizon, seeing everything around you. No skyscrapers blocking the view. No trees caging you in. No people drowning out the silence. Nothing to distract you from the natural beauty that is Washington State.

  After a while, my arms begin to tingle with numbness. I take turns rolling each wrist out, replacing them on the tank when I’m done. Coty looks down briefly before returning his attention to the road. I chance a peek over his shoulder at the speedometer then cringe at the number shown. Coty’s been handling the bike with poise and precision, giving me complete confidence in his skills, but I don’t think I’ll ever be used to going that fast. I’m definitely calmer than when we started but I wouldn’t say I feel safe, regardless of his expert driving thus far.

  Just then his left hand reaches back, grabbing the bike under my seat. His forearm resting against my hip becomes much more notable than our speed. The instinct to squirm, and not being able to, almost drowns out all other thought, even the small nips on my back from my hoodie’s drawstring—the powerful wind creates a cyclone of strings causing the eyelets to repeatedly pelt against my shoulders. Actually, no, that’s pretty painful. It’s been happening the entire ride but I’m not about to tap out, even if it does remind me of Chinese water torture. I’m already in the fast lane to Crazytown, might as well show up wearing a few—hundred—tiny bruises. Nonetheless, I ignore the pain, concentrating on keeping my breaths steady.

  Coty removes his hand and the momentary respite his touch created. The trio veers toward a convenient store, pulling in and killing their engines once parked.

  We all dismount, Coty helping me again.

  “So, how was it? As bad as you thought?”

  I answer, “yes,” instantly making the group laugh. “But it was nice, too.” Our helmets now attached to hidden hooks under the back seat, Coty’s gaze flashes to mine making me swallow thickly. “I don’t know. It was freeing.” I drop my eyes.

  His hands wrapping around my wrists steal my attention away from the oil stain next to my foot. “How are your wrists?” Gently, he pulls, bringing me closer. Sweaty strands stick up all over his head reminding me of Beckett’s earlier description. Pretty sure bed-head is my favorite now.

  His fingers are rubbing small, mind-altering circles on the sensitive skin just over my throbbing veins. Somehow past a lump, I manage to say, “Good.”

  Coty quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t push the issue.

  “What do you think, neighbor girl? Addicted yet?”

  I try to pull my hands away but Coty keeps his hold on my wrists, gentle yet firm. He’s keeping them. I allow him to, for now, by looking to Beckett. “It’s cool. Scary, but cool. I’m just glad we didn’t have to do any crazy turns or anything.”

  They share a cryptic look. My eyes narrow to slits but they’re on the move in the next instant giving me an excuse to extract my hands from Coty’s. The guys head to the back of the store but I linger near the front door, rubbing my shoulders.

  Marc’s the first to the register. The surprise on his face matches his tone. “Aren’t you getting anything?”

  I shake my head softly. “I’m still full from dinner.”

  His gaze drops, taking me in as an unreadable expression crosses his face but he doesn’t say anything more. Thankfully. The truth is I didn’t bring my wallet. My front pocket already packed with my phone and keys, I didn’t have room for it. Plus, I didn’t think I’d need it. I really am full, even if the pop and candy bar Marc’s holding look appealing now that they’re dangled in front of my face.

  Over his shoulder, he catches Coty’s eye and I watch as another unspoken conversation passes between the friends. One I’m not privy to. One I don’t even want to hear anyway, so I walk to the bathroom leaving them to their eye-talking while I check on my own ‘sex hair’.

  Back outside, I meet everyone lounging on the curb. Luckily, they’re just finishing up with their treats as I rejoin them.

  Noticing my approach first, Beckett stands, handing me a wrapped chocolate covered peanut butter bar. One of my favorites.

  I dodge the goody. “Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”

  Determined, he pushes it into my hand. “It’s traditio
n. You have to eat something.”

  The looks around the circle range from amused to hopeful to doubtful. I peel back the wrapper and break it in half. Giving Beckett the bigger portion, I bite from the smaller piece while trying not to moan. I’ll have to figure out a way to repay him later.

  “Thank you.”

  I watch in horrified amazement as Beckett devours the whole thing in one bite.

  “How tall are you by the way?”

  Cheeky grin in place, he answers, “6’6” and still growing.”

  “The fuck you are, man.” Marc makes a show of squinting up at his towering roommate.

  Mock innocence for days, Beckett says, “What? I didn’t say where I was growing.” The hands in front of his crotch say otherwise.

  I put my hands over my face to cover the blush threatening to spread, only to peek back out between my fingers. The guys throw their heads back in amusement.

  “Who did I move in next to?” I muse.

  Remembering my punishing hoodie strings, I tuck them inside the collar of my sweatshirt. Coty notices, arching a brow, so I explain what happened.

  “Shit. I didn’t even think about that. Want this instead?”

  He begins removing his thick jacket.

  “No, no, it’s fine.” I wave him off, not wanting to steal the only source of warmth, and probably protection, he has.

  “Sorry. I haven’t had passengers on my bike for a while.” He holds up my helmet from before. “This is Beck’s spare.”

  “He only lets his girlfriends ride with him is what he means,” Beckett teases as Coty helps me with the helmet, avoiding my gaze in the process.

  Girlfriends? As in plural? Of course girlfriends because look at Coty. I mean why wouldn’t he have girlfriends? Lots of them. Boatloads even, according to Beckett. It’s nothing that should make me jealous, that’s for sure. Picturing another woman, or women if his best friend is to be trusted, wrapped intimately around Coty should do nothing to me. Certainly not make me want to power walk my ass to the back of the gas station and scream until my lungs give out. It shouldn’t. And yet, the urge to do exactly that has me bouncing on the balls of my feet anyway.