by Cara McKenna
Chapter 8
For all his other faults of etiquette, Vince was punctual.
Kim had felt foolish even setting an alarm, convinced he’d been talking out of his ass—and trying to talk his way into her pants—with the whole mind-blowing-sunrise invitation. But doubtful or not, when she heard the unmistakable rumble of a motorcycle in the motel’s forecourt, her heart gave a leap.
Wait, no. Not her heart. Her gut. Definitely her gut.
She’d called her best friend the day before, to break the news of her split with Ryan. Holly had moved away from Portland nearly a year ago, but they’d stayed as close as ever thanks to near-daily phone calls. It hadn’t taken long for the woman to sense that Kim had other developments to share from her badlands adventure, so Kim had spilled the gist of the Vince situation—amorphous as it was. Holly had never been a fan of Ryan’s, so there was no disappointment there. She’d breezily advised Kim, “Live your life. Fuck the motorcycle thug.”
“You mean like, forget about him?”
“No, like bang the roughneck’s brains out.”
She’d laughed. “Easy for you to say. You haven’t met this guy.”
Kim crossed the dim room and pulled the curtain wide, and there the roughneck in question was, swinging a long leg off his motorcycle.
It was dark outside, but his bike was lit by the fixture outside her door. She was relieved it wasn’t a macho monstrosity like the ones she’d imagined. Looked old, with knobbly tires and regular handlebars, not those show-offy ape-hangers. No flames, either. No tribal barbwire bull, just black lacquer and desert-dusted chrome.
She remembered the words they’d last traded—his hot with flirtation, hers with annoyance. It threw her off balance, the ease with which he got under her skin. But he probably did that to tons of girls. He was larger-than-life, too big and too brash to ignore, pulsing with testosterone—a bull among calves.
Only one thing for it. Keep herself safely on one side of a sturdy fence, and Vince on the other. She could look at him, no harm in that. She could imagine the romp she’d be a glutton for punishment to actually take with him. Fine, good. Keep it in perspective.
And for the love of God, don’t go waving anything red at him.
She took a deep breath, freezing as their eyes met through the window. She raised a hand and he nodded; then he disappeared, heading for her door.
“Morning,” he said as she opened it wide.
She tilted her chin up. Way up. That face from her photographs, only lit softly now by the ambient light, not a glaring flash. And smiling mischievously, far from that look of surprise she’d time-capsuled. “Good morning, Vince.”
“Good morning, Kim,” he said pointedly.
“I see your memory’s improved.”
He smelled like manly crap. Leather and motor oil. And his eyes were sharp, trying to take in the bed behind her, she bet. “Ready to go?”
“I think so. Am I dressed right?” She gestured to mean yesterday’s dusty jeans and flannel, with a fresh tee underneath.
“Yup, you look real good.” Vince’s roaming gaze echoed the approval.
“I didn’t ask how I look, sex fiend. I’m asking if I’ll be warm enough. I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle.” She grabbed a thick wool sweater from the foot of her rumpled bed. Vince’s eyes seemed to linger on the sheets. Jesus, it was too early for a man to be getting that gleam in his eye. And damn her body for rousing at the thought. So much for blaming the scotch.
“You should be fine in that. Bit chilly on the way out, but the sun’ll be up before you know it.” Vince was wearing his usual getup—jeans and boots and leather bomber. She squinted through the window at the bike again, spotting no metal bar at the back of the seat for gripping. She was going to have to hug him, wasn’t she?
Don’t panic. You can blame any excitement on the heavy vibration.
She pulled on her sweater and laced her sneakers. She snagged her camera bag and slung it over a shoulder and under one arm, cinching the strap so it was snug against her back. Then she checked the lock and pocketed her room key.
Vince swept a hand toward his bike.
“This had better be impressive,” she said, preceding him off the curb. “I don’t set my alarm for four thirty unless I’m expecting to say, ‘Holy shit.’”
He mounted his bike. “Stick with me, kid, and I’ll show you plenty of natural wonders worth cussing over.”
God help her if that was meant as innuendo. Kim eyed the space on the seat behind him. “Is there a trick to this?”
“Just grab my shoulder and swing your leg over the back.”
She did, kicking the rear tire but managing the feat. It brought her crotch right up against his butt, but at least it wasn’t the other way around. “Where do my feet go?”
“There’s a couple pegs back there.”
“Ah. Got it.”
“Helmet,” Vince said, unhooking it from a handlebar and passing it back. It must have been his, as he wasn’t wearing one. “Probably too big, so pull it tight.”
She did, feeling a little rush of toughness.
Rising off the seat, Vince stomped on the kick-starter, and the machine roared to life. Fuck the helmet—she needed earplugs. “Jesus.”
“It’ll be better once we’re moving,” he shouted over a blast of throttle, a whiff of fuel. A light came on in a room with a slick black Mercedes parked in front. Hell of a wake-up call.
“Hold on tight, now. Don’t be shy.”
She rolled her eyes, unseen, and put her hands to his ribs, fisting his leather jacket.
“Hold me, not my clothes.”
Kim sighed her annoyance, the sound lost behind the engine. Her hands edged forward, but she really didn’t want to press her breasts flush to his back, no matter how many layers stood between them. She suspected he’d get too much satisfaction from it.
But as they took off, she rethought this strategy, bear-hugging him for dear life. She felt his chuckle more than she heard it, his ribs bucking softly against her locked arms.
“How far is it?” she shouted.
“Maybe twenty minutes.”
Already her butt was going numb from the vibration. And already she was feeling too at home, wrapped around this ridiculous man.
The sky was still black, and as they left the town proper, such as it was, the world was reduced to the corona cast by the bike’s headlight. There was a bite of artificial winter in the wind, a dry chill that made the heat seeping through Vince’s leather all the more alluring. She was jealous of his riding gloves, and tried covering one hand with the other. She tried balling her fists in the cuffs of her sweater, but the sleeves weren’t long enough. Vince caught the fidgeting, and freed a hand to grab one of hers, leading it to his pocket. She did the same on the other side before he could coax it, unnerved by the sensation of his gloved fingers at her wrist. Unnerved to have felt a sizzle at the texture and heat of him.
It’s not him.
It could be any decent-looking man, stirring this curiosity. She’d been with the same guy for almost two years. Of course this would feel thrilling and a touch forbidden. She splayed her fingers without meaning to, seeking the flat planes of his abdomen through his jacket lining and shirt. Shit, he was warm. And she could feel his steady breathing, even amid the violence of the engine and the pitted road, like the eye of a storm. Made the chaos jangling her nerves feel all the more frantic.
As they rode, the sky changed, transitioning from an ombré of black to navy, then taking on a hint of slate that stained the horizon, revealing the edge where the desert met the heavens.
After perhaps five miles on a tired two-lane highway, Vince slowed the bike and turned them onto a packed dirt road. It didn’t do a thing to improve the ride, but she had to admit, the motorcycle was suddenly justified. It easily dodged ruts that would rattle the bolts off a car, moving sure-footed over the cracked and crumbled rock. Maybe the bike wasn’t just a loud accessory fit for a larger-than-li
fe man.
After a couple miles on dirt, Vince made another turn, a sharp one, and Kim felt his muscles clench through the layers as he urged the bike up a short, steep slope and onto a primitive track.
Okay, fair enough. No way in hell she could’ve got out here in the Jetta. Wherever here was.
Vince turned his head, his profile catching the first glow of dawn, silver edging his hard jaw and brow, his strong, nearly straight nose. “Almost there.”
“Oh good,” she said, words warbled by the juddering. She craned her neck, seeking Lights Out behind them. The peak was just revealing itself, its eastern face a flat expanse of red-black, the construction unlit and invisible for now. The stars above faded, like a lamp dimmed behind a pinpricked sheet. Before them, a shape rose from the distance, a flat-topped minimesa the size of a two-story house. Vince made a beeline for it, dodging rocks and ruts with a striking grace, the bike an extension of his big frame. Against her wishes, Kim’s body hummed and heated at the notion of being an extension of his, on a far-different kind of ride.
Don’t bother, she warned her more impressionable parts, willing them to listen. She couldn’t claim to know Vince, not after one faux date and a ham-fisted proposition, but he struck her as a man who’d not prove exactly giving, in bed. More the sort to mutter things like On your knees or Spread your legs. And though those imagined commands gave Kim a guilty thrill, the reality of it probably wasn’t for her. She was the sort of woman who required relaxation and a patient hand—or mouth—to get where she wanted to be.
I had that in Ryan, she thought, a cloud cooling the bloom of lust. He’d never blown her mind, true, but he’d always taken her where she needed to go. A reliable chauffeur. Whereas Vince would be more like, what? A kidnapper, transporting her by force to destinations unknown? Very apt.
But then she caught herself. Caught herself doing exactly what she’d accused Ryan of, two nights ago—talking herself out of an adventure. She hugged Vince a little tighter.
“Here we are,” he announced as the bike slowed, motor quieting.
“Where’s here?”
“No place really, but we call it Big Rock. For reasons I probably don’t need to spell out.”
He cut the engine and Kim swung a stiff leg backward, dismounting with a little stumble, her lower half numb. As she unstrapped the helmet, every cell buzzed with leftover vibrations—and nagging curiosity.
Vince knocked the kickstand down and got off, then opened up a small compartment behind the seat and removed an old Thermos.
“What’s that?” Kim asked.
“Coffee, of course. I’m pushy, not cruel.” He started walking, skirting the huge rock, and Kim followed. She felt warm in the absence of the biting wind. It was still out here—eerie-still.
Around back, it was dark in the mesa’s shadow, and she kicked clay clods and slid on pebbles as Vince led her to a rudimentary set of stairs. The first few steps were stone slabs, the work of people, then an awkward ascent via natural footholds.
It wasn’t as flat on top as it had looked, but studded with jutting formations and small boulders. Vince strode past a lineup of empty beer bottles and what looked in the low light to be a deflated air mattress.
“Classy,” Kim said.
“Yeah. Place hasn’t changed since my teenage years.” He took a seat on a long rock, roughly the shape and size of an upside-down bathtub. Kim sat beside him, the both of them facing north. To the right, the edge of the sky was watery blue-green, nearly dawn. To the left, Lights Out had gained dimension, and its maroon coloring had lightened to brick. She slid her camera bag around and loosened its strap, hugging it to her belly. How on earth had she gotten here? Out to the dead center of nowhere at the cold break of day, alongside a strange, tattooed, gigantic man with a motorcycle, whom she’d met in a saloon? So unlike any lover she’d ever had; so over-the-top, he could’ve been a comic book artist’s creation.
Kim looked down at the sound of the Thermos being unscrewed. He filled the cup and passed it to her. She sipped—black with a taste of sugar—and studied Vince’s huge, gloved hands hugging the Thermos, forearms propped on his thighs. His eyes were on the east, where a yellow tinge had joined the dawn’s ever-expanding rainbow.
“Thanks,” she said quietly. This land was so silent, she bet she could’ve thought the words and he’d have heard them.
“Just store-brand French roast.”
“I meant for taking me out here . . . and for the coffee, too.”
“Not a problem.”
“I honestly don’t have any dirt on Sunnyside to pay you with. But I’ll buy you breakfast when we get back to town, if you want.”
“We’ll talk about Sunnyside later,” he murmured, sounding distracted.
Kim was getting distracted herself. The sun breached the horizon, a vibrant red-pink eye squinting as it roused.
“Get ready,” Vince said.
She set the cup aside and freed her camera. By the time she lifted it to check the light meter, the change in the mountain sucked her lungs empty.
She’d never seen such a color, not ever in her life. A coral so saturated, it transcended neon. Electric orange sunlight bathing ocher rock, marbled by the painted quality of the range.
“Holy . . . fuck,” she muttered, and behind her Vince laughed.
She started snapping shots, futzed with the settings, snapped some more. Dozens. And with the sun rising in earnest, the colors shifted as quickly as she could draw breaths. A cosmic spectrum within the earthly one, a rainbow of reds and oranges that seemed beyond the Nikon’s ability to render or the human eye’s to recognize. Yet there they were.
She heard the subtle noises of Vince taking a drink from the Thermos, the clink of its metal base meeting the rock.
“I got sunrise shots yesterday, from in town,” she said, clicking madly. “But it didn’t look a thing like this. Gorgeous, but this is . . . This is nuts.”
“It has something to do with the atmosphere, from this distance,” Vince said. “Some science bull about the dust in the air. Colors you’ve never seen before, right?”
“Never. Like, red multiplied by red. Red squared.”
“Just you wait, sweetheart.”
She didn’t bother admonishing the pet name. She was too grateful to be here.
And not for the assignment. Not for the shots she’d be able to show her client and add to her portfolio—these insane pigments would never be done justice by pixels on a screen.
No, she was grateful to simply be out here in this crisp air, smelling the earthy scent of the desert and watching the way the sun rose and the world came alive with color. Grateful to be awake at this hour, no matter how comfortable and cozy a bed sounded, no matter how nice it might be to sit down to a hot diner breakfast.
She was even grateful for the company, galling as it was.
She couldn’t say she liked Vince. She could nearly say she trusted him, though that trust was founded on . . . what? A much-needed drink that first night, his deference at her door when she’d told him to fuck off. Now this promised glory he’d made good on. But if nothing else, he seemed to say exactly what he felt, and to hell with what anybody thought of him. That was refreshing. After a lifetime of feeling coaxed and urged and shuttled, even a touch manipulated, she couldn’t help but appreciate the honesty to being dragged. It wasn’t as good as freedom, but it had an appeal.
“If I lived here,” she said, thinking aloud, “I’d get up early and watch the sunrise every single morning.”
“Wouldn’t blame you. Doesn’t really get old.”
The sky above was a gradient of yellow through deep blue, the earth below a flow of pure red to the blackest black. And to her right sat the unlikely man who’d manifested this entire trip, sipping his coffee, made the way he liked it. Sweet and black, the opposite of Kim’s taste preference.
Bet you get everything the way you like it. She watched him in her periphery, watching her.
Without thinkin
g, she swiveled on her butt, bringing Vince into the frame. He didn’t smile this time. Didn’t do a thing except regard her calmly through the lens and tilt the Thermos to his lips. She wondered if he could hear the shutter. If he knew just how many shots she was taking.
Through that lens, he blinked and said, “Way better shit going on to your left and right.”
Was there, though? Just now, washed in the dawn colors, this man struck her as fascinating and dangerous and rare as an exotic predator.
“You know, you’re a lot more obnoxious at night,” she told him.
“Gimme time. Coffee’s still kicking in.”
Her camera documented black hair against his sunrise-stained complexion. He turned to watch the day breaking. Black ink. Black leather. Hazel eyes painted amber by the sun. She captured them one last time, then went back to work.
Idly, she asked, “What do you do, anyhow?”
“I break rocks down at the quarry.”
“Literally?”
“Yeah, literally.”
“Like chain-gang style? With hammers and crap?”
“Jaw crusher’s a bit more efficient. But occasionally you get to bust out the old jackhammer.”
“Huh.” That explained his arms, at any rate, if hauling factored.
“And I have a few side gigs,” he added. “Just supplemental.”
“Oh?”
“Odd jobs.”
How odd? Was that code for illegal? “And you’re in a motorcycle gang or something? Sorry—motorcycle club. Or whatever the right term is.”
She detected a smile in his voice. “Neither. Nowhere near organized enough for that scene. Just a hobby I share with a few friends. It’s a practical way to get around, out here.”
“Those same friends you broke into mine shafts with?” she asked.
“Exactly. Five of us, used to be. Back in the day, when we were just kids, we called ourselves the Desert Dogs. We thought we were some real hot shit.”
“There used to be five?” she asked.
“Yeah, the group fell apart, over the years. My brother took off, and my friend Raina—though she came back. She served you, in Benji’s.”