“Okay,” he does this half laugh, half groan thing, “so you prefer Bridezilla instead?”
I roll my eyes. “Or… you could call me Mae, ‘cause that’s my name. What’s yours?”
“Red.”
“Red?Your mother named youRed?”
“What my mother named me isn’t what you’re going to call me, so it doesn’t matter.”
Now I’m the one laughing. “Yeah, I think I’ll call you Grumpelstiltskin.”
He lets out a long, weary sigh. “Grumpelstiltskin, really?”
“Really.” I grin, pleased with myself for thinking of such an accurate name.
“So that means I get like three wishes, right?”
“No, you get a sarcastic nickname and a hitchhiker strapped to your back.”
The corner of his mouth twitches like he might actually smile, but he doesn’t. I can’t tell if he thought my joke was funny or if he’s happy his murder strategy is working out as planned.“Keep talking, princess.” There’s an edge of threat in his tone, but it feels playful despite his massively terrifying shell.
A rumble echoes in the distance and a drop of rain wets the tip of my nose. I could wait around for someone else to come. There’s water dropping from the sky. I’ll be fine to hole up in the truck. Then again, this is a small town and we’re miles from cell reception. It could be days before someone comes out this way. I doubt I could survive off berries and sky water for that long.
He climbs onto his bike as though the decision has already been made. “Come on, princess. We’ve gotta beat this storm.”
Dear God, help me.
I lean my head to the side, studying his bulky frame so I could give a description to the cops or pick him out of a lineup… if I make it back.
He’s tall. I’d guess nearly seven feet, with dark black ink winding down both arms and onto his hands. Skulls, lots of skulls. Skulls, playing cards, and a symbol of some sort. It’s probably the gang he’s in. All these biker guys are in one, right?
His beard is dark red with heavy streaks of silver, and he wears torn jeans, a black T-shirt, and a leather vest with patches sewn into the front and back. This must be the gang thing. The back lettering is stitched with the words‘Chaos Brothers.’
How… promising.
“Come on, princess, I don’t have all day.” He starts up the engine, twisting the throttle like it’s personally insulted by me.
I sigh as I glance toward Sheila. “Hopefully, I’ll be back for you, old girl.Hopefully.”
She doesn’t answer because she’s a truck, but I pretend she huffs out in solidarity anyway.
Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I walk around to the side of Grumpelstiltskin’s bike and stand there like my body is still deciding if this is a good idea.
He glances back, arching a brow as a strong wind whips up behind us. “You planning on climbing up or issuing a formal declaration of disdain first?”
I step closer, eyeing the seat cautiously. “I’ve never been on one of these before.”
“It’s not a spaceship. You sit, you hold on, and you try not to scream in my ear.”
“Great,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “Just casually trusting my life to a man who names nothing and empathizes with no one.”
“You keep talking like that, I’ll start charging for emotional labor.” He seems humored by his own comment.
Grumpelstiltskin would.
I swing my leg over, nearly kicking him in the ribs in the process, then settle in behind him like someone making peace with her poor life choices. At least he smells good. Something like leather, motor oil, and the wisp of a campfire. I breathe him in, pushing away the tiniest bit of arousal that knocks between my legs as I shrink behind him.
The bike roars, and we’re off, dust rising, trees blurring, and Sheila shrinking in the rearview of a weekend that just keeps getting weirder.
