Page 133 of Shade
THERE ARE A few things I should clear up about last night. The moments Idoremember, and then again, the parts of the night I’d rather forget. Let’s pause here, just for a second.
I have a cactus spine in a place I’d rather not. My ass cheek. And I can’t see to get it out, but I know it’s there because when I looked in the mirror this morning, my right ass cheek is red in one spot.
I have no idea how I’m going to get it out because Willa is in labor, per her damn text message a second ago, and Shade. . . well, if I show him my ass, you know exactly what’s going to happen.
Okay, now back to last night. The reason for the cactus spine in my ass.
I don’t remember how that happened, but I do remember the kitchen counter, the side by side and the hot tub. All the important parts.
He kissed me. Or I kissed him, whatever, wekissed.
And it wasamazing!
Do you think he remembers me now?
Nope. Not a fucking clue, but I’m not even focused on that anymore. I’m confused as hell. Won’t he be pissed when he finds out that Willa hired me to be his friend?
What about when he finds out we actually already had sex?
I’m so fucked.
“I’m not so sure this is a good idea,” I tell Shade when we’re standing in the driveway staring at his rather nice street bike. It’s black with a red seat and wheels. I don’t know a damn thing about bikes, but I’m guessing it’s a Ducati. It says so on the side.
Shade smirks, handing me a helmet. “Ridingwith me is always a good idea.”
“Fair enough.” Oh God, what am I saying. I put on the helmet. “Prove me wrong, then.”
My hair is going to look ridiculous and my ass will hurt so bad, but it’ll be worth it.
“Get on the bike and I will,” he says, a sureness lingering in his every word.
I always take a challenge. Clearly. Cactus.
As the sweet sun kisses my skin and the wind moves through my hair, I risk a little and hold on to Shade’s stomach as he rolls down the driveway and to the front gate.
That’s the extent of the amount of time I should trust Shade Sawyer on a street bike.
I’m going to die. That’s my first assessment because he wants to get a thrill out of me. Within the first few minutes, or seconds, not sure, time is no longer relevant when your life flashes before your eyes, Shade takes a corner at 120 when the suggested speed is 45.
Forty. Five.
I’m almost positive his lungs felt my nails digging into his sides.
With the wind against my face, I concentrate on one, not hyperventilating and two, his reactions to my body against his. I can feel him breathing, slow and steady, in control, taking me anywhere I want to go. Or in this case, to Santa Monica where he has a meeting.
The nearly hour drive from Pasadena to Santa Monica takes us a half an hour because Shade doesn’t do the speed limit anywhere, and I’m certain he’s trying to scare me into sleeping with him.
Santa Monica is something out of an Abercrombie commercial.
Everywhere I look there are people half dressed, palm trees, and sand bordering the beach. You know you’re in Santa Monica by the iconic Ferris wheel on the pier jutting into the Pacific Ocean. We have a Ferris wheel on the pier in Seattle, too, but it’s nothing like this.
Everything is so beautiful and tropical, unlike the Washington coastal beaches that look like the color gray threw up over everything.
As he weaves around people walking in the streets and cars, I keep a firm grip on Shade. I have to. I constantly feel as if I’m going to fall off the back of the bike.
I nearly do when we take off from stop signs, and he does a little wheelie just to scare me. I yelp and feel his laughter shaking me.
We end up parking on the street in front of a row of small shops and then he swings his leg over to get off the bike. I do the same and stand on the side of the street, trying to straighten out my shirt and hair from the ride over. My hair doesn’t accept its unruliness until we are walking up the street and I’m trying to discretely pick my panties out of my ass while feeling like my ass is on fire.
