Chapter 7

7

KANNON

T he growl of my bike filled my head as I leaned into a sharp bend. The tires gripped the asphalt like my life depended on it—which it technically did. I opened the throttle, pushing the machine harder, faster, until the world blurred around me. The wind tore at my jacket, the roar of the engine deafening, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the memories.

The old highway was usually empty. That was just how I preferred it. I liked being alone with my thoughts. I was surprised by how hard Gary’s death was hitting me. It wasn’t like I didn’t know the man was dying. When he went into the nursing home, I knew his days were numbered.

Every time I visited him, his mind had slipped a little more. He stopped recognizing me. I realized visiting him was for me, not for him. It was my way of accepting what was happening to a man I respected. It was a healthy dose of reality knowing I would be meeting the same fate someday.

I twisted my hand, increasing my speed on the straight stretch of road.

The smell of the chapel lingered in my nostrils—fragrant flowers, cloying perfume that the old ladies seemed to love, and the Old Spice for Gary’s friends. The smells mixed together, dragging me back to a place I didn’t want to go. The sight of the casket being lowered into the ground hit too close to home.

It had been three years since I buried her. Three years of trying to outrun her ghost.

Most days, I managed. But today wasn’t one of them. My wife’s ghost seemed re-energized by Gary’s death. Like being at the funeral opened up the portal to the other world and she wanted to remind me of her and her untimely death.

I leaned low as another curve came up, the bike steady beneath me. For a second, I could almost hear her laugh, light and teasing. It wasn’t real—just my head playing tricks. Still, my fingers tightened on the throttle. I didn’t ease up on the next straightaway. I cranked it, felt the rush of adrenaline surge through me, and tried to outrun the pain.

When shit got real, I got on my bike. Outracing my demons might have been courting danger. I had been told I had a death wish more than once. Maybe I did have a death wish, or maybe it was just a way to feel something other than the numbness that had settled in my bones since she passed. The bike was an escape, a temporary reprieve from the haunting quiet of the house we once shared.

I came up to my usual turnaround spot about twenty miles outside the city. I knew I had to head back. The darkness would creep in soon enough. Riding balls out in the dead of night was a bad idea. Death wish or not, I wasn’t interested in excruciating pain.

The ride back was quieter, even contemplative. The city lights got bigger and brighter as I approached, pulling me out of the winding back roads and into a more controlled chaos. I slowed, weaving through traffic with sharp, aggressive precision. The engine still growled beneath me, ready to run wild again, but I kept it on a leash.

Barely.

I spotted her as I came to a red light, my hand poised over the brake lever. Merritt was standing on the curb, hailing a cab. I hadn’t seen her since the funeral, and yet, there she was, as if the universe thought I hadn’t been punished enough today.

I made a snap decision, cutting the cab off before it could even reach her. It honked but I didn’t care. I swung the bike to the curb and pulled off my helmet. Shaking my hair loose, I grinned at her.

“Need a ride?”

Her gaze flicked to me, then to the bike. A sleek, matte black monster I had customized myself. It wasn’t for the faint of heart, and Merritt knew it.

She shook her head, crossing her arms. “Not on that thing.”

“You used to love riding on the back.” I dangled the helmet toward her, my grin widening. “Come on, for old times’ sake?”

“No thanks.”

“Are you scared?” I teased.

“Don’t be so childish. We’re not fifteen daring each other to touch an electric fence.”

I laughed. “I think we were like twelve when that happened. And you never touched it.”

“I don’t need to prove anything to you,” she said.

“No, you don’t, but I think you want to know what it’s like to have all this power between your legs.”

Yes, it was innuendo. Judging by the look on her face, she caught it.

“Grow up,” she muttered, though her eyes sparkled with a hint of challenge I couldn’t resist.

“Who? Me? The distinguished Mr. Warner?” Leaning on the handlebars, I smirked and cocked an eyebrow at her. “What if I told you this offer was more for my benefit than your thrill?”

A slow, calculating smile stretched across her face. “Well, in that case… No.”

“Come on, you know you want to.”

She bit her bottom lip, hesitating. I had to suppress a groan. That habit used to make me weak in the knees. Now it just made me hard as hell.

She was wearing a pair of jeans that accentuated her full hips, along with a pair of boots like she was going for a hike, which I knew was impossible. The black hoodie she wore was also leaning toward some kind of outdoor activity. I looked at the bag in her hand and realized she was holding paintbrushes and painting tape. So this explained her grubby clothes.

I liked it.

She looked both ways down the street, like she was weighing her options.

“I won’t drive like a dick,” I promised, my tone laced with just enough sincerity to be convincing. “I’ll go easy. Swear on it. Your very fine body will arrive in one piece. No road rash.”

She sighed, giving me a look that told me she didn’t fully trust me—but then she stepped forward. “Fine. But if you kill me, I’m haunting you. A lot. Like rattling chains and slamming doors. All of it.”

“Deal,” I said, suppressing a smirk.

She took the helmet and handed me the bag. I put her purchases in one of my saddlebags for safekeeping, then helped her strap the helmet under her chin. My fingers brushed her skin. She gave me one last look. “If you drive fast, I will poke you in the side so hard you won’t be able to breathe.”

“Do that and I might crash my bike. I don’t think either of us wants that.”

“Where is your helmet?” she asked.

“You’re wearing it.”

“Shouldn’t you have one? Isn’t it illegal?”

I flashed a cocky grin. “Even if it was illegal, do you think that would stop me? I don’t need a helmet in Texas. I’ll be fine.”

She shrugged. “I know you have a thick skull, but I doubt it will save you.”

I chuckled and gestured for her to get on. She was stalling. I liked that she was a little nervous. It would just make the ride better for her. Facing your fears was an adrenaline rush. It was stimulating and a good way to remind someone why it was good to be alive.

She climbed on behind me. Her arms slipped around my waist and her thighs pressed into mine. Heat roared through me, hotter than the engine beneath us. My cock was immediately hard. I very casually moved my hand down to make some room for my erection that was dying to break free from the confines of my jeans.

I’d had women on this bike before—plenty of them—but this was different. Merritt felt like fire and gasoline, like she’d struck a match and tossed it into my lap. My body shuddered, like I was in the first few seconds of an orgasm. Like I was about to explode in my jeans.

I took a couple of deep breaths and forced the fire in my veins to settle the fuck down. I wasn’t sixteen. I could control myself.

I turned my head slightly. “Where to?”

“Dad’s place,” she said, her voice muffled by the helmet.

I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me, and pulled out into traffic. Her arms tightened around me as we moved. Every nerve in my body was on high alert. The feel of her against me, the way she fit there so perfectly, like no time had passed at all? It was torture. Sweet, excruciating torture.

The ride to her father’s place was short but the longest one of my life. The feel of Merritt’s body pressed against mine, the warmth spreading across my back where her chest was, made me feel raw lust for the first time in years. While other women scratched an itch, Merritt was the itch.

Every stop at a red light was sweet torment. Her grip would tighten and her body would push further into mine.

I had enjoyed plenty of sex and gotten off, but Merritt incited something primitive inside me. The kind of feeling that consumed you whole, the kind that made you forget every other woman you’d ever been with.

She made my heart pound and my body ache in all the right places. It was almost a physical throb now, a heavy pulse between my legs, an unwelcome knot in my gut. I wanted her—badly—and the frightening part was I didn’t know how to stop myself.

I distracted myself, thinking about all the nights I had spent at their house. Playing cards around the kitchen table, laughing with her parents, sneaking glances at her when I thought no one was looking. The house had been warm and full of life back then and their family had been welcoming. They treated me like I was one of their own.

When I pulled up to the house, I was shocked. Horrified, really. The place looked tired, worn down by years of neglect. It was a shadow of the home I remembered. It was never a mansion, but it had been kept up.

I pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. Merritt slid off the bike, struggling with the helmet. I stepped off and helped her. My hands brushed hers as I unfastened the strap. Her hair spilled out, and for a moment, I couldn’t look away. She glanced at the house and then back at me. She must have seen the look on my face. She cringed and looked embarrassed.

“I know,” she said, her voice quiet. “It’s seen better days.”

“Haven’t we all?” I replied, leaning the bike onto its kickstand.

She gave me a small smile. “Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem.” I hesitated, my hand lingering on the helmet.

She nodded, though I wasn’t entirely convinced. “I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me, but I’ll figure it out.”

Her gaze lingered on the house. I could see the weight of it pressing on her. I wanted to say something, offer to help, but the words didn’t come. Instead, I opened the saddlebag and pulled out her stuff. She took it like she was almost dreading it. I had questions. Like why didn’t she come back sooner? Why didn’t she hire someone to keep an eye on the place?

The lawn looked like it had been mowed, but it wasn’t grass. It was weeds. I imagined that had been done to avoid the city citing her father, but nothing else had been done to the place.

“Thanks for not driving like a maniac,” she said.