by R. C. Martin
I reach up and swipe at my cheeks, trying desperately to take a deep breath—but it’s like my heart is so full, my lungs don’t have room for anymore air. When he turns me and gathers me into his arms, I reach up to wrap my own around his neck, holding on tight. It takes me a couple seconds, but when I manage to find enough air to use my voice, I feel no anxiety at all as I whimper, “I love you. I love you so much. And it’s okay if you don’t say it back—I don’t care. I love you, and I want you to—”
He interrupts me with a kiss, but I don’t mind. I push myself up on my tiptoes, opening up for him immediately. He only teases me with his tongue before he stops and demands, “Eyes, Mack.” I open them without hesitation, blinking away my tears so that I can see into his gorgeous, dark irises. “What’s this shit about me not having to say it back?”
I blanch, unprepared for his question. “I just thought, maybe—well—”
“Clue in, babe.”
“What?” I breathe, my heart now racing.
Bringing his lips a hair’s breadth away from mine, he looks down at me through hooded eyes as he whispers, “I love you, too.”
My insides go squishy, my skin breaks out in goose pimples, and as I gasp, I steal his breath, his mouth already closing around mine. He kisses me deep and slow and wet, and I’m sure I never want this moment to end. Not ever. When it does, he pulls away from me only long enough to clear the bed, and then I’m suddenly underneath him, his mouth exactly where I want it.
Later, after we’ve both readied ourselves for bed, the lights are off, and we’re beneath the covers, sleep fast approaching, I whisper the words one more time.
“I love you, honey.”
The hand that holds my bare thigh across his hips gives me a squeeze as he mutters, “Love you, too, babe. Get some sleep.”
Smiling, I snuggle deeper into his side, and I do just that.
When we arrive at the hospital, we stop at the nurse’s station to chat with Pamela and Stacey. Pamela usually works every other weekend, while Stacey is a Saturday regular; but with a short staff this morning, Pamela is around on one of her off days. Her face lights up when I approach with Coder. As I tell them what he has in mind to do for the day, both she and Stacey get ecstatic. I usually only read to the younger patients, but I know that there could be some older kids who might want to get in on the fun, too. Coder asks if someone could check in on the other patients to see who else we should visit throughout the day. Stacey is quick to volunteer, and as she scoots off with her task, Coder and I make our way to our first stop.
Sheamus is usually one of the last kids that I see on Saturdays; but since he’s inspired today’s activity, we decide to drop in on him right away. Lance is in the room when we arrive, his attention focused on work. Sheamus—whose head is covered in the slouchy, gray beanie Coder gifted him a few weeks ago—is in bed, watching Saturday morning cartoons. Before I can lift my hand to knock, Lance looks up and spots us.
“Hi, Kenzie,” he greets, his tone expressing his surprise and confusion at seeing me this early.
“Coder!” gasps Sheamus.
“Hey, little man. How are you?”
“Okay,” he replies with a shrug. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve got a surprise for you. That is, if it’s all right with your dad.”
Both Coder and I look to Lance, who is now on his feet, making his way to the side of the bed. Reaching across the mattress toward Coder, he says, “The famous Coder. We meet.”
Exchanging a handshake, Coder chuckles before shifting his gaze back to Sheamus. “You’ve been talking about me, kid?” he asks teasingly.
Sheamus avoids the question with a guilty smile and then blurts out, “What is your surprise?”
Coder reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a folded sheet of paper. He opens it up and then hands it to Sheamus. I watch him admire it with a smile, already sure that he’ll love it. I saw the image earlier—the sketch a rough representation of what Coder intends to ink on Sheamus’s little body. It starts on his left bicep, extending all the way up his shoulder, and then down one side of his chest.
Without looking away from the paper, Sheamus asks, “You drew this for me?”
“Yup. I’m hoping your dad will let me ink it on you today.”
His eyes grow as wide as saucers as he lifts his gaze to find Coder’s. “Like a real tattoo?”
“Kind of, yeah. You’ve got some growing to do, so we don’t want to do anything permanent, but I’ve brought some stuff that’ll stick around for about a week if you want to do a test run,” he answers, patting the side of his duffle.
“Awesome!” Thrusting the sketch at Lance, Sheamus asks, “Please, dad? Look how cool! Please say yes. Please?”
Lance takes the paper and looks at Coder’s work. He raises his eyebrows, as if he’s impressed, and then looks to Coder before he inquires, “You drew this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Show him yours, Coder. Dad—it’s so cool.”
“It’s okay, buddy, he doesn’t—”
“No, dad, you have to see it. It’s better than Uncle Brent’s.”
“Well, if you insist,” Lance says with an amused glint in his eye.
Coder smirks, setting his bag on the floor before spreading open his jacket and lifting his shirt.
“See? Mine is gonna look kinda like his!” Sheamus exclaims, pointing at Coder in excitement.
“Yeah, buddy. I see that.” He glances back down at the paper in his hands as Coder rights his shirt. Lance thinks it over for a second, and then hands the paper back to Sheamus. “Does it hurt?”
“Not at all,” Coder assures him. “It’s paint and air. It’ll wear off in seven to ten days.”
“Okay. Go for it.”
“Yes!” Sheamus cries, hissing his S as he throws a fist in the air.
I barely contain my squeal as I clap my hands. Coder winks at me before he sheds his jacket and starts to set up. I help him when he needs it, but it doesn’t take too long before he’s ready. Lance helps Sheamus out of his shirt, and then over the next forty minutes, we all chat as we watch Coder work. When he’s finished, Sheamus is over the moon, looking happier than I’ve seen him in weeks. He begs Coder to take his shirt off, too, so that they can get a picture together, and Coder—being the amazing man that I love—agrees. Using our phones, Lance and I both snap pictures of the two of them flexing their muscles, showing off their ink. Sheamus is so, so tiny and thin sitting next to Coder, but the pride on his face takes my breath away. It makes me smile so hard, I’m convinced that nothing could steal my joy today.
When we’re all packed up, we say our goodbyes before Coder and I head to our next stop. Stacey and Pamela had both dropped in while Coder was working on Sheamus, and we got our list of patients who wanted us to drop by. For the rest of the day, Coder and I bounce from room to room, visiting the little ones that I know and love, and meeting some older kids for the first time. Stacey even brings us lunch in the middle of the day. Coder barely touches his, too focused on his task. He’s a rock star, and he gives every child something different. Treating them like real clients, they have mini consultations, and then he gets to work.
By the time we make our way out of the hospital, night has fallen. As he walks me to the Bronco, our fingers laced together, I smile to myself, quite certain that every nurse and every mother we’ve just left behind is completely smitten with my man. As for the fathers we encountered, they couldn’t hide the truth that they were impressed; Coder even got a few referrals for legit clients today.
Opening the passenger side door for me to climb in, he tells me, “I’m starving. This is what I’m thinkin’—swing by your place, grab your shit, hit JoJo’s pizza for some take-out, crash at my place tonight. What do you say?”
Instead of climbing into the cab, I wrap my arms around his middle, holding him tight as I look up at him. I pull in a deep breath and let out a big sigh before I say, “You’re my hero, honey. I mean i
t. You were incredible in there.”
He leans down and kisses me softly before he mutters, “Wasn’t a big deal, babe. Just a little fun.”
“Wrong. So, so, so wrong. Big deal. Huge deal. Thank you.”
He kisses me again and then asks, “Does this mean you’re down with crashing at my place tonight?”
“Yeah, honey,” I reply with a giggle. “Whatever you want.”
“Good,” he says before pressing one last kiss to my lips. He then taps my butt, nodding toward the Bronco as he demands, “Hop in. Let’s get out of here.”
With a sigh of contentment, I do as he says, taking my seat before he throws his stuff in the back and then settles himself behind the wheel. As we journey toward my apartment, I stare out the window, feeling better about life than I have all semester. The thought even crosses my mind that maybe everything that’s happened over the last few weeks was supposed to happen exactly as it did for this moment to mean as much as it does. I can’t deny that God saw this coming, and it feels like a gift. I even think that maybe I’m ready to come off of my God hiatus and go back to church.
Suddenly aware that I still don’t know Coder’s thoughts on faith and religion, I shift my gaze away from the window and focus it on him as I ask, “Coder?”
“Babe?”
“Do you believe in God?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I hold my breath. I know that I told Brooke that I didn’t care what his answer was, but now that the question is out there, I realize that’s a lie. Whatever he says next won’t change my feelings toward him, but there is a response I’m hoping for.
He takes his eyes off of the road for a second, glancing over at me before looking back out the windshield as he admits, “You don’t get thrown from a bike, riding fifty miles an hour, coming away with nothing more than a few broken ribs, and not believe that there’s a God. There’s no doubt in my mind someone’s up there looking out for me.”
I free the air from my lungs, feeling relieved. For the last couple of months, I’ve spent a lot of time with Coder, and I’ve never known him to even entertain the idea of going to church. It’s nice to know that he at least believes there’s a greater being out there. Now, feeling curious, I scrounge up the courage to ask, “Do you ever go to church?”
“I never went growing up. After the accident, I went a couple times to Trevor and Daphne’s church. It was all right, I guess. Not exactly my scene, though.”
I nod, understanding why he might feel that way. Having grown up in church, it’s never really felt strange or foreign to me; but I can imagine that the environment could feel—overwhelming, for lack of a better word. Even for people who are familiar with church, finding one that fits them can be difficult.
“What’s on your mind, Mack?”
“Oh, well, I was just thinking—it’s been a while since I’ve gone. I thought maybe, I don’t know—maybe I’m ready to go back. And, I mean, if you wanted, maybe—”
“Sure, babe. I’ll go.”
My gaze snaps in his direction as I gasp, “Really?”
“I’m not saying I’ll make a habit of it,” he replies with a chuckle. “And if you want to go tomorrow, you’re on your own, babe, but yeah—we can go. If it’s important to you, we can go.”
Reaching over to rest my hand on his forearm, I ask, “Have I told you today that I love you? Because I do. I love you, Coder Bishop.”
He moves his arm, letting go of the wheel in order to take my hand. He kisses the back of my palm and then laces our fingers together, resting our hands in his lap as he mumbles, “Good.”
That’s all he says; but as silence settles between us, he rubs his thumb along mine in a soothing, repetitive motion. That subtle touch, along with the comfort of his presence, it’s enough for me. For reasons I can’t explain, after the day we’ve had, it’s enough. And just knowing that, knowing that I’m with a man who makes me feel confident and secure in our relationship without speaking a word, realizing that I love him enough to understand what he’s saying when he’s not saying anything—it suddenly becomes clear that I never had any reason to be anxious about speaking of my love. I see now that he’s been telling me he loves me for a while now. Maybe even for just as long as I’ve felt it. I’m clued in, and that only makes me love him more.
Coder and I sleep in Sunday morning. Even after we’re both awake, we only get out of bed long enough to use the bathroom, and then we’re both right back underneath his sheets, cuddled in each other’s arms. The house is quiet, Jimmy and Mark still sound asleep, and Rigs at work in Wyoming for another week. As if neither of us wants to disrupt the quiet, lazy haze of the morning, we speak softly to one another, wondering how the kids are doing this morning and remembering the hours we spent at the hospital the day before.
Our conversation soon trails off into sweet kisses as Coder’s lips find mine, his tongue speaking in a language I’ve come to adore. I follow his lead, and he doesn’t take things very far. His hands wander, making my body buzz in excitement, but he doesn’t push for more. It’s romantic and sexy, and I lose track of time as I lose myself in his affection, loving every second.
When he pulls away, it’s with a groan. He buries his face in my neck, and I hold his head in my hands. He doesn’t say a word, but as he hugs me close against his body, his erection pressing against my thigh, I know in my heart that he’s protecting me. Running my fingers through his hair, I understand that as gentle as he’s been all morning, it wasn’t for him but for me. Without asking, I get the impression that he’s going crazy on the inside, wanting more than what I’ve told him I’m ready for; but he loves me enough not to push me.
In this moment, I know I have a decision I need to make—and soon.
I don’t pay attention to how long we lay together before his erection goes away and he lifts his head. He stares into my eyes and takes a deep breath, kissing my forehead before he climbs out of bed, announcing, “Hope you packed jeans, babe. We’re on the bike today.”
March has definitely arrived, and spring is in the air—the snow having melted away a couple of weeks ago. There’s no telling if it’ll snow again tomorrow, but the last few days have been really nice, making me really excited about the prospect of getting to go for a ride on Coder’s motorcycle. Propping myself up on my elbows, I ask, “Seriously?”
“Would have been on it weeks ago, but I’ve got this girl I’ve been cartin’ around.” He turns and winks at me, then pulls a fresh pair of boxer briefs from his dresser as he tells me, “Been in the cage long enough, Mack—need to feel some power between my legs.” I blush, no longer certain we’re still talking about his bike. “Gonna hop in the shower then go wake up my beast. When you’re ready, we’ll head to Harvey’s, yeah?”
“Okay,” I murmur with a nod.
He pauses when he reaches his door, his eyes scanning the length of me before he shakes his head and takes his leave. I plop back down against his pillow, the scent of him wafting around me, and I groan.
He definitely wasn’t talking about the bike.
I take a quick shower, deciding not to shampoo my hair, assuming that riding on the back of a motorcycle in early March with wet hair would lead to a wicked cold. Instead, I part it down the side, braid the front, and gather it into a messy bun at the nape of my neck. When Coder returns to his room, finding me in a pair of jeans and one of my flannel button-ups, he digs out a hoodie, draping it over my shoulders with instructions to wear it underneath my coat. I do as he says, sliding my feet into my black Chucks before he leads me outside.
If I had to describe his motorcycle in one word, I wouldn’t hesitate to call it sexy. The brand name on the side tells me that it’s a Ducati, but that means very little to me. What I know is that it’s black and sleek and sexy. Just the thought of riding on the back makes my stomach clench. It isn’t until Coder fits a helmet on my head—the kind that snaps underneath my chin—that I start to get nervous.
“Eyes up, Mack,” he insists. My eyes snap up t
o meet his obediently. “You look scared. Are you?”
“I’ve just never—”
“Do you trust me?”
My shoulders sag as I reach for his hand and insist, “Of course, I do.”
“All right, then don’t be scared. I got you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Nodding, I whisper, “I know.”
“Few ground rules, yeah?” His hand still holding mine, he tells me a few things I need to know while riding at his back. I listen carefully, willing myself to be brave. When he’s done, he smashes a quick kiss against my lips and then reaches for his helmet. He slides it on over his head, his visor still raised, and then climbs onto his bike. Holding his hand out, he helps me straddle the seat behind him before he tells me, “Hands in my pockets, babe. Hold on tight.”
I do as he says, shoving my hands in his jacket pockets, holding him so tightly, I’m practically plastered against his back.
I hear it as he grunts, “Fuck,” before he lowers his helmet visor and starts the engine.
The vibration between my legs surprises me, and I press my knees tighter against Coder. When he pulls out of the driveway, my breath catches in my throat, and I close my eyes as my stomach drops in fear. Then, as he speeds down the street, I start to relax when I get the sense that he’s in complete control. He knows what he’s doing, and I don’t have any reason to be afraid. I remind myself of this a couple times, then draw in a deep breath before I open my eyes.
The wind against my face is cold, but I don’t mind. It feels good being wrapped around Coder as we ride. With my eyes now open, I notice he’s taking a different route to the Payton house. There’s something about the way he handles every stop, every curve, and every turn that makes me think he’s done this a million times. I can feel how comfortable he is, how free he feels, and I now fully understand why he calls his Bronco his cage. Furthermore, I’m wholly aware that this is my true Coder—this is Motorcycle Boots—the man who controls this bike and wields all the power that it holds.