by Long, Marie
I chuckle to myself. Her fear and denial are more than obvious now. “I won’t let you fall off. Trust me.”
Her thin eyebrows rise. “I barely even know you.”
“True, but how else will we get to know each other if we don’t take chances?”
With pursed lips, she looks hesitantly at my parked bike. “I don’t know. Maybe we should just take my car.”
“Up to you,” I say with a shrug. “But … ” Slowly, I reach for her hand. I can’t help it—her hand is so close to mine, I can feel her warmth. Gently, I glide my fingers over hers, and feel her soft, smooth skin. “I promise you everything will be okay.” I look down at her hand and don’t feel inclined to let go. Not yet. Not at all. I want to kiss her hand so badly, but she seems surprised enough by my actions.
Her eyes drift to mine, then down to our hands. Thankfully, she doesn’t pull away. “Okay. Just this once. I’m holding you to your promise. I better not fall off.” She smiles slightly. “Let me grab my purse.”
I exhale. It’s progress in a big way. She’s trusting me. I let go of her hand and watch her disappear back inside the house. I hear voices rise from within, and then Denise comes back outside, looking slightly annoyed.
“All right, let’s go,” she says.
I keep my thoughts about their argument to myself and lead Denise down the walkway to my bike.
She runs her hand along the red tank and over the seat. There’s hesitation in her eyes.
Smiling reassuringly, I unlock the extra helmet from the side of the bike and hand it to her. “Here. You need to wear this.”
She gingerly takes the helmet and stares at it. It’s a black-and-white full-face helmet with gold-colored abstract designs on it. There are signs of obvious wear on the helmet, but it’s otherwise fully functional. She slips it on over her head—and over that fantastic hairdo that she’d probably just gotten done—and I help her. The helmet is a little big but seems to fit her well enough. After securing the strap under her chin, I look her over. “How’s that?”
She pulls up the face shield and grumbles, “I can’t believe I’m doing this. This is totally going to mess up my hair.”
I laugh. “It’ll be fine. Your hair is beautiful regardless.”
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head.
I shrug out of my jacket and hand it to her. “Here. So you won’t get too cold.”
“Thanks,” she says, taking it. “But what about you?”
“I’ll be fine.” I’m already hot just thinking about you sitting behind me.
She slings her small square purse across her body and puts on the jacket.
I slip on my helmet and mount my bike. “Come on.” I motion to the raised back seat for passengers. “Sit in that spot behind me.”
“How do I get on?”
I point to the foot pegs on either side of the lower frame, near the back tire. “Put one foot there, swing your other leg over, and sit.”
“Geez, glad I wore pants,” she mutters, and I chuckle.
She hesitates a moment before managing to heft herself up. That whiff of pears and cocoa plays with my senses again. “Am I sitting right?” she asks, her voice muffled from the helmet.
I look behind me and nod. “Good. Now, keep your feet there, wrap your arms around my waist and … ” I fall silent as I feel her slender arms around me. Her hands squeeze my abs, and I feel the softness of the rest of her body pressing against my back. I swallow a lump in my throat. My groin tightens.
“Am I holding too tight?” she asks.
I swallow again. “N … No, not at all. Hold as tight as you need to, and keep your arms around me.”
“Don’t worry, I don’t intend to let go.”
I beam so wide my cheeks hurt. I am not about to complain about her holding too tight. Her touch is electrifying.
I start up the engine and slowly ease away from the curb. Denise clutches my abs and stomach tighter, nearly making me gasp for breath. But the feeling does more than startle me; it gets me harder. Riding on a motorcycle with a hard-on is absolute torture. Why does she have to be so amazing? I don’t think I’ll be able to concentrate on dinner at this rate.
I take all the side streets and make it to Jade Fusion a little after seven. There’s an unreserved parking space right outside the restaurant that’s just big enough for a bike to fit. I maneuver my way into the space, throw down the kickstand, and shut off the engine. While I take off my helmet, I wait for her to get off the bike.
“And this is why I love to ride,” I say, gesturing to the parking space I managed to squeeze into.
She stumbles a little as she dismounts, but I reach out for her hand to help steady her. She fiddles with the snaps and loops of her helmet, and pulls it off. The helmet has done little to mess up her hair. All of her braids are still intact, and her naturally curly ponytail is still full of life, just like her. She peers at herself in one of the bike’s mirrors and brushes the front edges of her hair with her fingers.
I chuckle. “Your hair’s fine. You look great.” I get off the bike, hang my helmet over the other mirror, and set hers on the seat. Taking her hand, I lead her to the restaurant’s entrance. A waiter standing outside the doors and dressed in a chic black suit casts Denise and me a questioning look as we approach.
“Good evening. Do you have reservations?” he asks.
I nod and give him my name. He walks behind a podium and checks a clipboard sitting atop it. Then he nods and scribbles a line across the page with a yellow highlighter. “Ah, Mister Anderson.” He smiles. “Thank you. Please enjoy your experience at Jade Fusion.”
The smell of marinated beef and steamed vegetables engulfs us as we enter, making my stomach growl. The restaurant is dimly lit, with jade-green lights creating an upscale, modern Asian-fusion atmosphere. I’ve only been here a handful of times, since it’s not exactly a place mechanics go to on their lunch break.
A waitress escorts us to a table, next to one of the restaurant’s many windows overlooking the busy city streets. The table is set with two wine glasses and silverware rolled in black cloth napkins. Two black leather-bound menus are set where the plates would be.
I pull out a chair for Denise.
“And here I thought chivalry was dead,” she says, smiling at me.
Returning the smile, I seat myself. “I’m glad I was able to change your mind. So what did you think of the motorcycle ride?”
“All right, I’ll admit it. It wasn’t so bad. At least I didn’t fall off.”
I wonder if she’ll want to ride again. “See? I told you. It’s fun. And relaxing.”
“It is.”
“Think of all the other fun and adventurous things you might be missing out on.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Oh? Like what?”
“Like … ” I rub my chin. “… maybe going to a movie with me after dinner.”
She chuckles. “How about we just get through dinner first?”
“Fair enough.” I smile sheepishly.
I scan the single-page menu. Though the restaurant is somewhat upscale, the prices are fairly reasonable. “You like this place?” I ask Denise, and she looks up from her menu.
“Yeah, it brings back memories,” she says, glancing around the place dreamily.
“Old dates?” I wonder how many guys before me have taken her here. I mean, what guy wouldn’t want to take a beautiful girl like her out to dinner?
She gives me a dumbfounded look, then covers her mouth and chuckles. “You think I came here on dates?”
It’s my turn to look dumbfounded. “Well, why else would you come to a place like this?”
“This wasn’t always a restaurant, you know. It used to be Anastasia Beaumonte’s Dance Studio. I used to come here to do ballet.”
My jaw drops. “You do ballet?”
“Did,” Denise says. “Only in elementary and middle school before Miss Beaumonte died and the place shut down.”
“Sorry to hear that. I
bet you were really good at it.”
“I was okay, I guess.” She tries to fight down a smile, and I know she’s being modest. “Anyway, I never really got back into it since I didn’t have the time. And I really loved Miss Beaumonte. I didn’t think I would ever find another teacher like her.”
“Well, some things you never forget.”
The waitress returns with a tray of water glasses and a bottle of wine. “Would you two like to try our special Riesling tonight?” she asks, setting down the glasses of water.
“Sure,” I say just as Denise adds, “Please.”
“I will need to see your IDs, please.”
I flip my driver’s license from my wallet, and Denise does the same. As the waitress scans them, I peer at Denise’s ID, hoping to get a glimpse of her birthdate, but I can’t see shit.
“Thank you,” the waitress says and fills our wine glasses a quarter of the way with white wine. I release a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. She’s twenty-one, at least. Thank God I won’t be drinking alone tonight.
Denise and I place our dinner orders, and the waitress disappears again.
“I saw you looking,” Denise says, smirking.
I blink. “Huh?”
“Trying to know how old I am. Or were you just trying to sneak a peek at my horrible picture?”
I never even thought to look at her picture. But I suspect it was anything but horrible—unlike mine. This girl doesn’t look like she takes horrible pictures. “Well, uh, you know, it’s impolite to ask a woman her age, so … ”
“Yeah, if they’re insecure about it. Honestly, age is just a number.”
I smile. This girl is really one-of-a-kind. “All right, then. How old are you?”
“Twenty-one and proud. You?”
“Twenty-two.” I pick up my wine glass. “A toast?”
Denise lifts an eyebrow. “To what?”
“To … ballet. Yeah.”
She chuckles and picks up her glass. “You’re crazy. Fine. To ballet.”
We clink glasses and take a sip. The wine is a little dry for my taste, but Denise seems to enjoy it.
“So what about you, Mister Mysterious?” Denise asks, with a lick of her lips that really gets my motor revving.
I set my glass down. She wants to know more about me—perhaps my past—but there’s nothing there I would want to talk about. “Well, I’m an engineering major at UDub.”
“Yeah, you told me that already.” She leans her elbows on the table and rests her chin on her fists, staring at me intently.
Oh damn, that look. She obviously wants to know something personal about me. I pick up my water glass. “Did I already tell you that? Okay. Hmm … ” I take a small sip to hide my discomfort.
“Are you from Seattle?”
“Not originally, no. I was born in the Bronx and moved to Renton when I was three.”
Her eyes glitter. “The Bronx? As in New York? Wow. I’d love to visit New York someday.”
“I’m sure one day you will.” I grin. “Lots of ballet shows on Broadway.”
“So, let’s see. You ride motorcycles, fix cars, study engineering … you must’ve totally been a jock or something when you were growing up.”
I chuckle. “Well, I did play football my junior and senior years.”
“Really? Wow, never would’ve guessed football. Maybe basketball or soccer.”
“My brother played basketball. He was really good. He was on the varsity team all four years of high school. Ended up with a full ride to UDub, where he became a legend for three years. He could’ve gone pro.” But he had to go and throw it all away by dropping out.
“Why didn’t he?”
“He lost interest.” I take another sip of water to hide my frown. I’m not sure if it’s true or not, but that’s what he always told me whenever I asked. But part of me has always thought otherwise. I see the guilt and regret in his eyes every so often. He sacrificed his dream. Because of me. Because of the shit at home with Mama. Because he knew how miserable I’d been in that house alone with her and Uncle Adam. And those memories.
Those fucking memories …
“So why did you choose engineering, of all majors? Did your parents put you up to it?”
I set down my water glass. It’s leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. “So what kind of movies do you like?” I ask, hoping she’s willing to take the hint.
She pauses and looks at me strangely, but to my relief, she lets the life story thing rest. “I like action,” she says, then picks up her water glass. “The more car chases and explosions, the better.”
“I like action movies, too.”
The waitress returns with our food—Mongolian beef over rice with steamed vegetables for me and teriyaki chicken with a salad for Denise. The food is excellent, and we eat in silence, occasionally looking up and shooting little glances at one another. Denise still looks damn good, but sometimes I think I see a little frown between her eyebrows, like something’s bothering her. I hope it’s not the food. I really hope it’s not me.
We both finish, and I check my phone to see what movies are playing. “Let’s see … there’s a movie that came out last week that’s supposed to be pretty good. Lots of action in it. It’s starting around 9:55. Wanna check it—” I look up and notice Denise has her arms crossed, and she’s jiggling her foot under the table. I can see the tablecloth bouncing. “What’s wrong?” I ask, shutting off my phone.
Denise looks down and starts fidgeting with the tablecloth. “Just nerves.”
I scratch the stubble of my beard, trying to make sense of it all. “Are you … not enjoying yourself?”
“First dates always make me nervous. You know, having dinner with a complete stranger.”
“Are we really complete strangers? I mean, we can get to know each other little by little.”
She runs her finger around the brim of her water glass. “Yeah? You don’t seem to like talking about yourself very much.”
Yeah, because I don’t want to gross you out with my past. “What else can I say? I’m just a normal guy.”
She chuckles, and I relax a little. “A ‘normal guy’? No, Dominick. Normal guys don’t do what you do.”
I purse my lips, wondering what her past boyfriends did to her to make her so defensive. “Well, I guess I’m not a normal guy, then. I’m trying to do this right, you know. No obligations, no one-night stands. Just a quiet dinner and a movie afterward. That’s all.”
“That’s just it. No obligations? Let’s be real, Dominick.”
Of course she doesn’t trust me—maybe she doesn’t trust guys at all. I guess in a way that’s smart, but now I’m even more curious about what her past boyfriends must have done to her to cause this icy shield. I don’t want to lose my cool in front of her, but she is starting to push the wrong buttons. “Yeah, no obligations. I’ve treated every girl I’ve met like this—or at least I’ve tried to,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “And you know what? They didn’t want it. I was too boring for them. Old-fashioned. They were expecting some sort of obligation.” The anger begins rising in my chest. I don’t understand why some of you chicks prefer guys who treat you like shit.
Her eyes widen, and she gapes at me. “So what are you saying? That I don’t appreciate this?”
I take a deep breath. I had gone off on her, and I didn’t mean to. “I wasn’t talking about you in particular. I won’t lie, I’ve had other girlfriends in the past. But none of them lasted longer than a few days. It was either because they wanted a one-night stand or because they felt like I was cramping their style.”
She stares at her half-empty water glass, which is covered in condensation. She idly runs her finger down the side of the glass, catching the water droplets.
Fuck going to the movies tonight. I’m too pissed.
The waitress returns with the bill, and I stick three twenties in the black leather holder and hand it back to her, telling her to keep the change.
“Can
’t a girl be curious?” Denise asks once the waitress leaves again.
I frown. Cautious, you mean. It’s not fair for me to generalize like this. Denise is very smart. I should appreciate that she wants to know more about me instead of just spreading her legs to a stranger. “Hey, I’m sorry. I just … want you to trust me. I wanna be the best guy I can be for you. The fact that you trusted me enough to ride on the back of my bike meant a lot. And sitting here having dinner with a beautiful and intelligent girl like you means everything.”
Her head tilts to the side and she smiles, her cheeks turning a slight shade of red against her smooth, caramel skin.
“I know we’ve only just met,” I say, “and you feel like you barely know me, but I like taking things slow, no pressure.”
“I guess. It’s just weird. Most guys I’ve dated wanted to get into my pants the very first night.”
I frown. In truth, I do want to get into her pants, and I feel horrible for thinking that, but I can’t help my urges. Denise may have given up ballet in middle school, but she still has that luscious dancer’s body.
“Thanks for dinner, by the way,” she says, and I realize I hadn’t responded to her previous comment.
“You’re welcome.” I nod.
“We should get lunch sometime or maybe an early breakfast before classes.”
An opportunity to spend more time with her? Hell yeah. But I’d never seen her on campus before. “What’s your schedule like?”
“I have a nine-thirty sociology class and a two-hour world literature class starting at 11:10 on Mondays and Tuesdays, then the rest of the week are all afternoon and evening classes.”
I make a mental note of her schedule. “All of my classes are in the morning, starting at eight, and the last one ends at 1:10. I go to work after that.”
“That’s convenient.”
I shrug. “Eh, it works. I don’t have much of a social life on the weekdays because of it, though. Hey, in June my motorcycle club is having a community cookout to raise money for a member’s little girl who has cancer. Would you be interested in coming out?”
“I’d love to. I’m sorry to hear about the poor little girl.”
“We’re hoping it’ll be a big turnout so we can help the family out.”