Darlin'

7| The Flying Hog

"Fucking finally," Jesse huffs, leaning against his motorcycle as I strut toward him. "You said five minutes."

"I couldn't decide on a shirt," I explain, carefully maneuvering the walkway to avoid all the cracks in the pavement. Momma always told me that first impressions matter, and if I want a successful first day as the new bartender, it is imperative that I look as confident as possible. Confidence is cute blue jeans, a darling white over-the-shoulder shirt, and my lucky strappy heels. "How do I look?"

"Uncomfortable." Jesse lowers his Ray Bans™ to the tip of his nose as he gives me a questionable once-over. "You realize you're gonna be standing for like eight hours, right? Sure you don't wanna wear some sneakers?"

"No way," I say, glancing down at my feet. "These little babies can handle just about anything, standing included."

"If you say so," Jesse hums, passing me a black helmet with a lifted blue mirrored visor. "Put this on."

"It's heavy," I note, holding both sides of the straps as I stare into the padded lining. "This looks tight."

"Supposed to be tight," he says, sighing as he helps me put on the helmet. My eyes widen as the padding drags across my cheeks. Oh God, that's definitely going to leave a foundation stain on the inside. Jesse bites his lip in concentration, adjusting the fit as he fastens the straps. "How does it feel?"

"Like my head's 'bout to explode," I complain, tucking strands of loose hair under the foam padding. "Where is your helmet?"

"Only got one," Jesse says, mounting the motorcycle as I nervously linger behind him. He's not wearing a helmet? He's either extremely confident or simply reckless. Jesse revs the engine, looking back at me. "Well? Get on."

"How...I mean...where?" I swallow, eyeing the limited space behind Jesse. That's real tight. "I've never, you know..."

"Jesus," Jesse sighs, patting the raised "back seat," if we can even call it that. "Swing your leg over and sit your ass down." He points to a pedal in front of the engine-type thing. "Feet go here." His head snaps up as he adds sternly, "Make sure your foot doesn't touch the exhaust, okay?"

"Okay," I whimper, gripping Jesse's shoulders as I heave my leg over the bike and sit down on the leather seat. The pedal wedges between my heels, and I bite my lip. Shoot. Maybe sneakers were a good idea. Too bad I didn't pack any. "And I just, um...hold on to you?"

"Yup," Jesse says, adjusting his position as I gently rest my hands on his shoulder. "Waist, Savannah. My waist."

"Basically, you want me to hug you?" I ask tentatively. "Seems a bit intimate, no?"

"Fucking hell," Jesse mutters. "If you want to live, then I suggest you hold on to me, but hey, your life, your choice." He kicks back the stand and starts the engine. I immediately latch onto his torso, my unfulfilled life flashing before my eyes. "Good. Now"—he walks the bike backward a couple of feet, yelling over the rumbling—"all you need to do is hold on and lean when I lean, understand?"

"Lean when you lean?!" I ask, pulse quickening. "What does that mean?"

"Means that when we turn a corner," he explains, accelerating down the driveway, "you lean when I lean. If you don't, we could crash. Okay?"

"Crash?! Oh my God, we're going to die," I whimper, my palms sweating against his leather vest as he turns onto the dirt road, the uneven ground vibrating the entire bike. "Oh, I don't wanna die."

"Relax, princess," he shouts back at me. "You've got a helmet on. If anything, you'll just be partially paralyzed."

"Oh my God," I cry out, closing my eyes as the cool wind nips at my cheeks. I forgot to put the visor down! Jesse revs the engine again, this time nearly doubling the speed. My heart drops to my stomach as my grip tightens around his waist, my head spinning from fear and nausea. Am I holding on too tight? I'm gonna suffocate him, aren't I?! "Holy freaking shit balls!"