Ride With Me

Chapter Ten

The fire had burned down to a bed of coals by the time the night caught up with her. Piper had been running on fumes since the ride out; the long scream of the highway, the wind prying at her jacket, the way her thighs had cramped and loosened and cramped again in the last twenty miles—and the workday before it had stacked up behind her eyes until the world moved at half speed.

She laughed at something Diesel said and heard the sound arrive a second late. Ben was telling a story. Felix was adding to it. The coals popped, and the night smelled of pine and wood smoke and the beer sweating in her hand, and she was warm and full and so tired she could feel it in her bones, the way you feel a storm coming.

Knox had been watching her from across the fire all night. Every time she surfaced, his eyes were already there—dark, patient, those catlike eyes that studied instead of looked—and he was doing it now, reading her the way he read everything, like she was a page he intended to finish.

"You're done," he said, quiet enough that only she heard it over the hiss of the coals.

"I'm fine."

"You're swaying."

She was. She hadn't caught it until he said it, and then the ground tilted gently under her, and she felt the slow list of her body toward the warmth.

Knox stood, unhurried, and offered her his hand. "Come on. Tent's mine. You're taking it."

"I'm not taking your tent."

"You're taking it."

Ben's voice drifted over, dry as tinder: "He doesn't let anyone in that tent, you know. You should feel special."

"Shut up, Ben."

"Noted."

She took Knox's hand. His palm was warm and rough, the rings cool against her fingers, and he pulled her up easy, steadying her with a hand at her elbow when her knees wobbled. She waved goodnight to the crew, a gesture she couldn't have described a second after making it, and let him lead her away from the fire, past the dark shapes of tents, the murmur of voices falling away behind them until there was only the soft crush of pine needles under her boots and his hand at her elbow, patient as a handrail.

His tent sat a little apart from the others. He unzipped the flap and ducked inside, and a lantern clicked on, spilling gold across the nylon, and he reached out and drew her in after him. The smell hit her all at once—plastic, new and sharp, and under it something warm and dark, the cologne he wore, the same scent that had been on his collar when he leaned close. She breathed it in like a woman surfacing from deep water.

Inside, the tent was small and close. Two sleeping bags lay side by side, already unrolled—his, rumpled and dark, and an empty one beside it. He went to the corner, grabbed a pillow, and dropped it onto the empty bag. Then he looked at her. "It’s not much. But it beats the ground."

"Beats a lot of things tonight." She reached for her jacket zipper. The leather was stiff from the ride and warm from the fire, and she peeled it off with a sound that was half sigh, half groan, letting it fall to the tent floor. Beneath it, her white tank top had gone damp with the day, clinging to her like a second skin, and through the cotton he could see the black bra beneath—the straps, the shape of her, the dark lace.

Knox went still. His gaze lay on her, heavy and warm, and she didn't look up. She was too tired to be coy, and some part of her—the part that had been watching him across the fire all night—wanted to see what he would do with the sight of her.

She reached for the zipper of her leather pants. The rasp of it was loud in the small space, and his head came up, his gaze snapping to her hands, the line of his jaw tightening. She worked the zipper down and pushed the pants over her hips, the leather catching on her thighs, sliding slowly down the shape of her legs, and the black boy shorts beneath came into view, cut high on the hip, the pale cream of her thighs, the dark crescent of the moon inked on her left rib where her tank had ridden up.

He was staring.

She caught him at it and grinned. "You do not expect me to sleep in leather, do you?"

Knox blinked. The tension in his jaw broke into a laugh—low and rough, a real one, the kind she had heard him give the crew. "No," he said, shaking his head. "I did not."

She dropped onto the sleeping bag, the nylon crinkling beneath her, and reached for her backpack, the one she had buckled to the back of her bike, dusted with road grit. She dug through it past a rolled-up shirt, a toothbrush, the little kit of toiletries, hunting for her brush, and her fingers closed on something else—a small square box, smooth cardboard, and she recognized it before it came free of the bag, the way you recognize a mistake the second you make it, and it slid out anyway, tumbling into the lantern light between them like a dropped confession.

She lunged for it.

Knox's hand got there first. He just looked at it, then at her, and the slow grin that spread across his face made her want to fold herself into the sleeping bag and disappear. "I am assuming," he said, low and easy, "you were anticipating using those tonight."

Piper snatched the box out from under his hand and shoved it back into her bag, her cheeks blazing, and tucked a stray strand of raven hair behind her ear. "That was—that's just in case. Last minute. It's nothing."

"Uh-huh."

"It's not — I didn't —"

"I'm not complaining."

The quiet came back, and it was different now—closer, warmer, the lantern light pressing against the nylon walls. She could hear the distant murmur of voices by the fire, a laugh that rose and fell, and none of it felt real anymore. The tent was its own country.

"I don't even know your name," Knox said finally, and the teasing had gone out of his voice. "I have been watching you all night, and I don't know your real name."

She looked at him. The lantern carved his face out of the dark—the strong bones, the fall of hair, those eyes, dark and patient, waiting on her—and something in her chest turned over, because a man like this didn't ask for names, and she wasn't the kind of woman who gave hers. Names were how people got found. Names were how they got held.

"If I tell you," she said, "you have to swear you won't repeat it. To anyone. Swear it."

"I swear it."

"On something. Swear it on something."

He held her gaze, and the silence stretched while he decided. "On my mother's life," he said.

The words landed soft and heavy, and she believed him. She couldn't say why—she had known him less than a day, and he looked like the kind of man trouble would have no difficulty finding—but his eyes hadn't left hers, and the air in the tent had gone still, and she believed him.

"Piper," she said. "My name is Piper."

He said it back, quiet, like he was learning the shape of it. "Piper."

And the way he said it—like she had handed him a key and he meant to keep it—made her breath catch.

He reached out then, slow, and his fingers brushed the strand of hair she had tucked behind her ear, tucking it again the way she had done it herself, and the touch was nothing at all, and it undid her completely. Her eyes went wide, her pulse picking up under his gaze, and she saw the small smile that pulled at his mouth, the way he read her like a book she was writing with her own body.

"You're tired," he said. Not a question. His thumb traced the line of her jaw, light, testing. "If you want to sleep, I'll turn out the light, and we'll pretend this never happened."