Come Back To Me (6 page)

to the sidewalk, somehow come unstuck. ‘I’ll look after

you,’ he says softly. ‘Don’t worry.’

The thing with Kit is that he has these eyes which are

so blue and so clear they’re basically hypnotic. When he

stares right at you, it’s like you’re a butterfly pinned to a

board. There’s no escape. All you can do is submit, which

Didi would probably claim is all about my deep-seated

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compulsion to please and to avoid conflict, brought about

by years of having to accommodate my dad’s moods.

Didi’s father is a psychologist, so she has a deep-seated

compulsion to analyse everyone she comes into contact

with. But secretly I think she’s on to something. I just

don’t have the courage to actually confront this truth and

deal with it. One day. Just not today.

Kit unlocks the seat of the bike and hands me some-

thing. I shake it out. It’s an old leather jacket, soft as

butter and lined with worn suede. I slide my arms

through the sleeves, shivering not with cold but because

it feels like being enveloped by warm arms – Kit’s warm

arms, to be precise. The jacket smells of him – and of

motorbike – and I want to burrow down deep inside of it

like an animal going into hibernation.

Kit comes and stands in front of me to zip it up. He

pauses when he’s done, puts his hands on the collar and

draws it up under my chin. I hold my breath, expecting

him to kiss me again, because it looks like that’s what he’s

thinking about as his eyes dance around my lips, but at

the last minute he decides not to. He reaches instead for

something else from inside the bike and passes it to me.

It’s a helmet. Holding it in my hands, I stare at it like a

strange and magical relic I can’t guess the use of.

‘You going to put it on or not?’ Kit asks.

‘What about you?’ I ask, noticing he doesn’t have

another one.

‘I’ve got a hard head,’ he says, rapping his hand

against his skull.

‘That explains a few things,’ I mutter, undoing the

strap of the helmet.

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‘You need a hand?’ Kit asks as he watches me wrestle

the helmet on. My cheeks are going red because I know I

must look like a total idiot standing in my bare feet wear-

ing skimpy cotton shorts, a leather jacket five sizes too big

for me and an oversized motorcycle helmet. As if on cue,

Kit grins at me. ‘Looking hot,’ he says, his gaze sweeping

all the way up my body.

I narrow my eyes at him but the visor is down and I

don’t think he can see my scowl. He hops forwards and

helps me do up the strap, his fingers pausing to linger

against my throat. Instantly I forget about the stupid

helmet and about the fact that I’m standing on my street

looking like I’m dressed for some bizarre kind of costume

party. It’s that hypnotism thing again, except it’s not just

his eyes this time, it’s his touch.

‘You could wear a sack and you’d still look beautiful,’

he says, dropping a kiss on top of the helmet. He says

something else but I don’t hear it because all I can focus

on is how he just called me beautiful. My heart does a

bungee jump. Kit just told me I’m beautiful and I’m wear-

ing what feels like a concrete turban on my head. I know

Didi will laugh her ass off when I tell her.

Kit has already swung his leg over the bike and is

sitting waiting for me. I wobble a bit, unused to the extra

weight on top of my shoulders and the weird deafness

that comes from the padded bits by my ears, then swing

my leg over the seat and climb on behind him. He takes

my hands and pulls me closer, wrapping my arms around

his waist, then kicks up the stand and revs the engine. We

take off down the street. I have to suppress a scream – of

surprise and excitement both. My thigh muscles squeeze

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the outside edge of Kit’s legs, and I knot my hands over

the rock-hard slab of his stomach. I press myself even

closer against his back and feel a rush like nothing I’ve

experienced before.

It’s like a rollercoaster ride. And as Kit takes the corner

with total ease and confidence, I know one thing with

sudden and absolute certainty: I don’t ever want to get

off.

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Kit

When I take the corner and Jessa’s body leans with mine

into the curve, I almost shoot straight through the inter-

section. It’s hard to stay focused with the feel of her

pressing against my back, and I’m just glad she can’t see

my face because I know I must be grinning like an idiot.

I pull up at a stop light and feel Jessa shift behind me.

Without thinking I drop a hand and rest it on her knee.

She burrows even closer against my back in response and

I have to fight an urge to stroke my hand all the way up

her thigh. Instead I place it firmly back on the handlebar

and scan the street in all directions for cop cars. Driving

without a helmet will get me a ticket, but I’m hoping

we’ll get lucky. We’re not going far, after all − just back to

mine.

As I’m glancing around, on the lookout for flashing red

and blue lights, I see something far worse than a cop car

and swear under my breath. Straight ahead of us, in the

oncoming traffic queue, waiting at the stop light, is

Riley’s car.

Has he seen me? It’s dark and I can’t make out his face.

I look back at the light. It’s still red. Come on, change, I

urge it silently. As soon as the light snaps to green I give

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the bike full throttle and throw a right turn. Jessa’s arms

tighten around my waist and too late I remember I prom-

ised her I’d go slowly.

Mitigating circumstances. Checking in the mirror I see

Riley’s car crawl across the intersection behind us. Did he

see? For the last mile of the journey I find myself strug-

gling with guilt and shooting looks in my wing mirror.

Riley’s my best friend, but more than that he’s effectively

a brother to me. What kind of a guy goes behind their

best friend’s back to hook up with his sister? I try to

imagine what Riley would say if he found out, but I don’t

even like to contemplate it. He’d be mad, that much I do

know. The President’s secret service team have nothing

on Riley when it comes to overprotectiveness.

One time we were all out for pizza and some guy made

the dumb but entirely understandable mistake of look-

ing at Jessa twice. Riley got out of the booth and went

over to him, demanding to know what he was looking at.

The guy almost shat his pants right there in the middle of

the restaurant. He’s probably never looked at another girl

since.

Another time, when Jessa came to the base for our

send-off, one of the guys in B Company asked who the

hot piece of ass was and Riley saw red. He smacked him

with a right hook before the guy had even finished his

sentence. He got an official reprimand for that. If Riley

hadn’t done it, though, I might have. Even back then I

had a thing for Jessa, though I hadn’t fully admitted it to

myself, let alone anyone else. If I had to analyse what it is

that brings out the overprotective warrior in me, I’d say

it’s her vulnerability − what my sister calls her sweetness.

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My life is basically spent surrounded by guys in uniform

waging war and watching porn in their downtime. Jessa’s

the counterpoint.

Or maybe it’s because her father’s a controlling bully

and I want to protect her from him. My guess is that’s

why Riley’s so protective of her too. Not that either of

them really opens up about what goes on behind closed

doors. I’ve only managed to pick up a few clues here and

there. I sigh. Could also be that my sister’s right and I

have a hero complex.

A car is coming up on my inside and I glance sideways

in panic. It’s not Riley, but it briefly crosses my mind that

I could simply try to explain − tell him that I’m not just

playing around. The problem with that, though, is that

Riley knows me better than anyone. He knows my his-

tory and will therefore assume Jessa’s just the next in a

relatively long line of girls I’ve had meaningless flings

with. It’s not like I’ve ever had a proper girlfriend, so how

would I convince him that this is different? I don’t want a

meaningless fling with Jessa. That much I do know. But

the fact is I’m leaving soon and I’ll be gone for a year.

How can it be more than just a fling?

As I pull into my driveway, thoughts still stamped-

ing around my head, I notice the lights are on down-

stairs. Damn. My dad’s still awake. I pull the bike into the

garage beside my dad’s pickup and quickly kill the

engine. Jessa surprises me by hopping off the bike before

I can help her. I ready myself for her laying into me about

driving too fast, but when she pulls off the helmet I see

her cheeks are flushed and she’s smiling like she just won

the lotto.

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‘That was amazing. Can we do it again?’ she says, the

words flying out of her breathlessly.

‘That was nothing,’ I say, grinning back at her. ‘One

day we’ll take a road trip. A long one. Just you, me and

the bike.’ As soon as I say it I start imagining it, and for a

moment I can smell the ocean breeze, feel Jessa’s arms

around my waist leaning into every bend. I can picture

the two of us riding into the sunset, stopping at cosy, out-

of-the-way hotels, having wild adventures involving hot

springs and deserted beaches. The fantasy vanishes as

quickly as it appears. Why am I saying things like this to

her? Getting her hopes up? I’m contracted to the military.

They own my ass.

Jessa’s biting her lip, a cute habit I’d forgotten about.

She does it a lot, especially when she’s contemplating

doing something she thinks is against the rules . . . so

basically everything other than breathing. But seeing the

glow in her eyes as she stares at my bike I get a buzz in

my sternum. Rule breaking is something I used to be a

pro at, and the thought of breaking some with Jessa, if it

makes her smile the way she is now, is a total turn-on.

‘What are we doing here?’ Jessa asks now, looking

around the garage which doubles as my dad’s workshop.

‘Is your dad home?’ The worried look is back. I’m guess-

ing she’s afraid that if my dad finds out she’s here

somehow it’ll get back to her dad, despite the fact that my

dad and her dad don’t speak and I’d absolutely trust

my dad never to say anything.

‘We’re not staying,’ I tell her, hoping to allay her fears.

‘I just wanted to pick up a few things.’

‘Where are we going?’ Jessa asks gleefully, the worry

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erased, and I have a sudden urge to pick her up and

swing her around, her enthusiasm is that infectious.

‘It’s a surprise − quit asking.’

She purses her lips at me, but I ignore it and head

towards the door that leads into the utility room. ‘Wait

here. I’ll only be a moment.’

I forget to wipe the grin off my face before I walk into

the kitchen where my dad happens to be fixing tea.

‘What you grinning for?’ he asks me, arching an eye-

brow as he pours milk into his mug. My dad might be

knocking fifty but not much passes him by.

‘Nothing,’ I answer, heading straight for the stairs.

‘Last time I saw a grin like that, nine months later your

sister arrived on the scene,’ my dad calls after me. ‘You

watch yourself.’

Man, my dad. He’s always handing out pearls of wis-

dom, mostly ending with the moral
always wear a condom.

I shake my head. As if I’m going to sleep with Jessa. In

all honesty, the fantasy was never fully fleshed out. It was

usually just me kissing her, holding her, waking up

with her in my arms, nothing beyond that. Totally PG

compared to some of the fantasies the other guys in my

unit would happily share. But with Jessa it felt wrong

to imagine something so intimate, as if doing so would be

taking advantage of her. Having said that, now I’ve actu-

ally kissed her I think I’m going to have trouble not

letting my imagination make up for lost time.

I push open the door to my old bedroom. I have a

room on the base where I keep most of my stuff, but

when we’re on leave I stay here. There’s a single bed sit-