Flame (Fire on the Mountain #2) (22 page)

SUNDAY, JULY 1

LYING AWAKE IN THE SOFT
hotel bed with a sleeping Dakota tucked into my side, I wish I could freeze time. I want to stay here. Right now. In this exact moment. Forever.

After successfully defending my gold medal last night, with the highest score of my professional career, our crew—Gunner and Emmy Sue, Rhino and some no-name chick he’d picked up, and Dakota and me—found a gem of a dive bar off Bourbon Street to celebrate, away from the other riders, fans, and media. For nearly four hours, with old-school Delta Blues playing in the background, we drank, laughed, and shot the shit, soaring high on the excitement from the last couple of weeks. The genuine smile stretched across my face didn’t falter for a single second. Best fucking night ever.

When we stumbled to the hotel, sometime after three in the morning, Dakota and I attacked each other like two wild animals—our raw, uninhibited desire borderline savage. Apparently, Fireball Whisky makes my little Sunshine even more
energetic
than usual. Everything’s still a bit hazy, but I’m pretty sure she stuck her finger in my ass at some point . . . and I’m pretty sure I want her to do it again.
Damn. I am losing my fucking mind with this girl.

She stirs and shifts her weight so that my erection is nestled right up against her firm ass while she makes this faint cooing noise that acts like a song from a snake charmer’s flute, luring my beast out to play. Some people call it spooning; I call it the lazy man’s doggy-style. Her eyes stay closed and her breaths even out, so I refrain from dipping my hips a few inches and sliding inside her, allowing her to sleep a little bit longer. I’m a considerate fucking guy.

Propping my elbow up in the pillow, I rest my cheek into my palm and stare at her in the incredibly vulnerable state. She’s the definition of perfection in my book—physically beautiful, witty and intelligent, not afraid to stand up to me or anyone else, confident without arrogance. I had no idea when I asked her to come on this trip what I was getting myself into, how she would fit so effortlessly into my life, filling a void I didn’t realize was there. And now that it’s almost over, I have no idea what I’m going to do when she’s gone.

Wednesday night, after Dakota and I ‘made up’ on the patio outside the party, it was clear then that she meant way more to me than I’d been allowing myself to believe. When we went back inside the restaurant—both looking freshly fucked with rumpled clothes, tousled hair, and swollen lips—I’d marched directly over to Mercedes, my arm possessively looped around Sunshine’s shoulders, and informed her that Dakota was here with me as my girl and that she needed to chill with the sexual shit. Whatever we’d done in the past was just that . . . the past. Fully aware that in a week’s time Dakota would be on the other side of the country and I’d still have to deal with Mercedes on a daily basis, I didn’t give a shit about her reaction or any lingering consequences. All I cared about was proving to Dakota that she’s worth burning that bridge. She’s worth burning down a whole fucking city.

“Are you watching me sleep?” Dakota’s scratchy morning voice breaks through my thoughts, bringing me back to the comforts of the cozy king-sized bed.

Brushing her messy blonde hair off her forehead and out of her eyes, I lean over and press a soft kiss on her mouth. “Mornin’, Sunshine. Is it creepy if I was?”

The corners of her lips lift up in a wicked grin. “Well, it depends what you were thinking about,” she replies, wiggling her hips against my crotch.

“Somebody woke up feeling naughty,” I murmur into the side of her neck as I find her naked breast with my free hand, pinching and twisting the metal barbell in her nipple. “I fucking like this shit.”

Giggling, she reaches behind her, slipping her hand between our bodies, and grabs my dick. With a slight bend of her back, my tip lines up at her entrance, and as she glides back onto my shaft, she whispers, “I fucking like this shit, too.”

This girl is going to wreck me. Pretty sure she already has.

More than an hour later—after a shared shower that only ended up slowing us down in our attempt to get ready quickly—we’re pulling our sunglasses down over our eyes as we step out onto Canal Street, ready to explore all that the Crescent City has to offer. I’ve been through New Orleans a few times on tour, but other than going to a couple of the well-known bars and restaurants, I’ve never done the touristy thing. It’s usually not my thing . . . but ‘my thing’ is kinda changing.

“You ready for a proper
N’awlins
breakfast, Sunshine?” I drawl, taking her hand in mine as we head toward the Café Beignet I spotted around the corner yesterday.

“Does it include waffles and fried chicken?” she asks hopefully, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Chuckling, I shake my head as I guide us down the sidewalk. “I’m afraid not. I thought we could grab some fresh beignets and a coffee before taking an adventurous stroll over to the French Quarter. I’m sure we’ll be stopping to eat and drink at different bars and cafes we pass throughout the day.”

“Sounds good to me.”

And just like that, she’s happy. No asking about what else I have planned. No whining about how stiflingly hot it is outside. No complaining about having to walk everywhere. I’ve never met anyone so easy to please. As long as I keep her fed, laughing, and thoroughly sexed, she’s good to fucking go, almost like she’s a guy . . . except she’s not a guy. Most definitely not a guy.

Thankfully, the breakfast rush is over at the street café and the wait is short to get some caffeine pumping through my veins and some fried, flaky pastry goodness in my stomach. Dakota devours an order and a half of the beignets by herself, raving about how she wants to move here permanently just for the food, all while having white powdered sugar dusted across the tip of her nose. When I tell her about it, she insists I put some on mine too and that she takes a selfie of the two of us.

I turn in my man-card as we walk out of the coffee house and consider stopping off at the drugstore for some tampons, because it’s official . . . I’m a bona fide pussy.

For the next eight hours, we wander through the landmarks of the bustling French Quarter, doing everything that we want to do and absolutely nothing that we don’t. Dakota dances barefoot to a jazz band set up in Jackson Square. I face my irrational fears of wax figures. We make out in front of the St. Louis Cathedral until we’re asked to leave.

It’s a day jam-packed with museums and souvenir shops, saxophones and trumpets, hurricane glasses and beaded necklaces, and the best company ever. We eat and drink, we tease and laugh, and we kiss and touch, all while pretending our time together isn’t coming to an end.

As the day grows later, we move west through the streets, trying to stay one step ahead of the sun, not quite ready for the day to end. Eventually, we end up at a table on the balcony of Bourbon House seafood restaurant, watching the tourists amble by as we fill up on oysters, BBQ shrimp, and alligator boudin, which are surprisingly delicious. All day, we’ve avoided talking about our imminent goodbye, but as the sky darkens and the moon and stars appear, it’s all I can think about.

“I’m going to return to Colorado at least ten pounds heavier,” she jokes, rubbing her flat belly as she pushes the empty plate in front of her off to the side. “It’s probably a good thing I’m going back tomorrow, otherwise my ass wouldn’t fit through the bus door soon.”

Leaning forward, I reach out across the table and take her hands in mine. “Is it a good thing?” I ask, my tone much more solemn than I intend.

Her eyes drop to our joined fingers for a few lingering seconds before returning to mine, wide and glassy. “Me not getting fat is a good thing,” she deflects.

“That’s not what I’m asking, Sunshine.”

Capturing her bottom lip between her teeth, she worries the smooth, pink flesh as she inhales a deep breath through her nose then releases them both. “I know,” she whispers.

We sit in the silence, holding hands, staring into each other’s soul.

I don’t want you to go
. I tell her with my eyes, afraid if I say it aloud, I’ll get more choked up than I already am.

“I have to, Hulk,” she answers softly, a sad smile playing on her beautiful face. “We live two different lives. When you’re not on the road, touring from city to city, you’re training in California, and I’ve heard you talking to Gunner about how much time you need to put into preparing for the World Championships. It’s a huge goal of yours that deserves your complete attention, and more than anything, I want you to steal the title back from that stupid cocksucker, Foss.”

Snickering at the way she scrunches her nose up with disgust when she says his name, warmth fills my chest at her respect for my craft. She knows how much motocross means to me.

“True, but I didn’t miss a single training or workout session these last two weeks, and you were with me for all of them,” I contend. “You’re not a needy chick who wants to be coddled twenty-four-seven.”

“No, I’m not, but I have my own goals, Levi.” Releasing my hands, she rests back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest, putting up a barrier between the two of us. Protecting herself. “I’ve got six months left of school, plus a highly sought-after internship I’m starting in the next quarter. Then, once I’m making decent money giving massages, I want to take some business classes so that maybe one day I can open my own spa, either at my parents’ resort or somewhere warm and tropical.”

Her voice cracks toward the end, and as she grabs her glass of water and lifts the straw to her mouth, the trembling of her hands tells me she’s fighting to control her emotions . . . just like I am.

“I know. I just thought . . .”

I don’t need to finish the sentence. She knows what I thought.

“We both knew this was temporary when it started. A fun summer fling.” Her words say one thing, but the melancholy blue of her eyes says another. We both know this is much more than a fucking fling.

“You’re right, and there’s no reason we should waste the time we have left dwelling on things we can’t do anything about.” I fake a smile and lie, because I have no other choice. “What do you say we do one of those after-dark ghost tours before we head back to the hotel? Maybe this time we’ll actually get to see something?”

Nodding with excitement, she bounces up and down in her chair like a little kid. “Ooh, yes! That sounds perfect, and maybe after that,” her eyes twinkle mischievously, “we can finally make that sex tape we’ve been talking about.”

With a deep laugh, I leave plenty of cash in the check folder for the meal and a healthy tip then stand and reach for her hand. Pulling her up against my body, I slam my lips to hers in a possessive kiss. Tomorrow might be a different story, but for tonight, she’s still
mine.

MONDAY, JULY 2

LEVI DRIVES GUNNER, EMILIA, AND
me to the airport in the Suburban early Monday morning for our ten-thirty flight. The guys attempt to make small talk, discussing different riders and things that happened over the weekend, but I’m not paying much attention to the conversation. Resting my forehead against the passenger window, I focus on the scenery zooming by outside in a futile attempt to not burst into tears and agree to stay with Levi.