“I know I said I’d wear my helmet, but I only have one,” I say softly. Lifting it up, I carefully place it on her head as her eyes search mine. I buckle the chin strap, and though I want to touch her smile with my fingertips, or my lips, I lower the face shield, giving us the slightest buffer.

  I am fucking losing it for this woman. And that’s dangerous as hell. Not only because she’s the one person who might save me and Americana Land, but because I’ve never had anyone get under my skin like this. So fast, so deep, without even trying. Shit, without even wanting to.

  But I’ve never been one to back away from a risky move. And I’m not going to start now.

  I throw a leg over my motorcycle, giving Jayme a head tilt. “Hang on.”

  There’s no hesitation on her part. She wraps her arms around me and presses her chest to my back as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and my body responds like she’s always supposed to have been there.

  Before she can change her mind or give me any more rules to follow, I turn on the motorcycle, the rumble drowning out everything the way it always does. This is why I love riding, not some so-called bad boy image as Jayme suggested, but the way that it requires total focus while somehow allowing me to go completely mindless. Work deadlines don’t matter when I’m riding. Neither does family drama or anything else.

  Except this time.

  Nothing can distract me from Jayme and the whoop of joyful surprise she makes as I pull off into the dark of the night.

  CHAPTER 7

  JAYME

  Clutching Carson’s torso, with my ass threatening to pop out on the shallow saddle created by his motorcycle’s seat, I’m trying hard not to scream. There’s a level of trust in letting him be in control like this, following his moves as he leans left and right, making turns through the nearly deserted streets. I don’t know where he’s taking me, but I know I want to go.

  This is so much more than a bad idea. It’s potentially self-destructive on a nuclear level. Not because I can’t get close to a client. Sometimes, that’s the best way to do my job. One of my best friends, Taya, is actually a former client I helped when she needed to soften some rough edges on her public personality. We go shopping and have lunch and tell each other outrageous stories that make us laugh until we’re crying and rolling on the floor. I know more about her than most people do, and vice versa, so we’re definitely close.

  But this is different.

  I don’t want to laugh with Carson. I want to dig deep under his skin and explore what really makes him tick. Scarier still, I want to let him into my own closely-guarded world. I boldly told him that I wanted all his secrets and let him think I don’t have any of my own. But that’s not true. Everyone does, including me.

  I let the wind whipping past us take those worries away with every mile of road we cover. I want to enjoy this, however fleeting this moment and experience might be. Curling into Carson’s back, I can pretend we’re just two people out for a night ride with nothing keeping us from going as far as we want.

  He drives us past the city limit sign, heading toward the western mountainous bluffs that are crisscrossed with trails and campsites. I’ve been out here before, when I thought hiking might be a good stress relief from my busy life that’s ninety-eight percent work. Instead, I discovered that ‘hiking’ is shorthand for walking in the heat and dirt, with annoyingly buzzy bugs as escorts, while panting for air and trying not to die, only to make it to your destination and have to turn around to do it again to get home.

  In other words, not my favorite thing to do.

  We roll back and forth along a winding road, moving in sync. I know this isn’t nearly as fast as Carson can push his bike. To him it probably feels like puttering, but it feels exhilarating to me. And it’s infinitely better than hiking.

  We get higher and higher along the bluffs until he slows to pull off the road onto the shoulder. He rolls another twenty feet or so before coming to a stop and shutting off the engine. He plants his feet on either side of the motorcycle and then reaches down to tap my leg as a signal to get off.

  Being as careful as possible, I put one foot on the ground and do a weirdly awkward hop to get my other leg up and over the seat without kicking Carson in the back because that’d be the type of graceful oopsie I’d make. I manage that part successfully, at least, but my hopping leg feels a little tingly and asleep, and my knee buckles.

  “Whoo!” I screech, the sound echoing through the night as my fists grab handfuls of air. Carson somehow dives to catch me, never letting the motorcycle wiggle an inch. Wrapped in the fierce cage of one of his arms, I feel even more unsteady, though.

  “You okay?” he asks, not letting go. If anything, he holds me tighter. “I should’ve warned you that the vibration can make you feel a little numb.”

  “Numb?” I echo. That is not what I feel. I feel alive, like every nerve in my body is buzzing on the same high-voltage frequency. He looks at me, concern in his eyes, and I realize that he can’t see my face through the helmet’s darkened face shield, especially when there’s only moonlight surrounding us. I nod, the heavy helmet making the move jerky. “I’m good.”

  He relaxes slightly, still looking uncertain, but releases me to adjust the handlebars and put down the kickstand. I fidget with the chinstrap, finally managing to take the helmet off myself once I find the little buckle. Blinking several times to adjust to the change in darkness, I look around to see where we are.

  “Cutthroat Curve?” I ask, reasonably sure of my surroundings though I haven’t been here at night.

  Carson smiles in surprise. “You’ve been here before?”

  I shake my head. “Not like this. Just driving through during the day.” Cutthroat Curve is a bit of a misnomer because it sounds like the sort of place people go accidentally flying off the edge into the blue abyss to crash to the bluffs below. And maybe it would be if it weren’t for the ten different curves in the road before this final one at the top of the mountain. No one speeds up here. It’s not vehicularly possible to gun it through these switchbacks. And there is a guardrail, though it’s worn and misshapen from years of protecting stupid drivers who push the pedal a bit too far.

  Luckily, that’s not Carson.

  I expected him to be a good rider, but he was exceedingly conscientious. Maybe because he had me on the back of the motorcycle? Or perhaps he wanted to show me how well he can keep a promise?

  “Come here,” he says, taking the helmet to set it on the bike and then taking my hand. He leads me over to a large boulder set nearly on the edge of the bluff. “Careful. There’s a rock here you can step on, and then up you go.”

  I look down to where he’s pointing and carefully place my boot on the small rock, stepping up to the large, flat boulder. Carson’s hands are tight on my waist as he ensures my footing is steady and my balance solid. Slowly, I lower myself down to sit and find the rock still warm from a day in the sun.

  Once I’m settled, Carson follows me and makes himself comfortable with one long leg outstretched in front of him and the other bent. He rests his elbow on the raised knee, turning slightly to look at me.

  “Thank you for coming with me tonight.”

  I want to say ‘of course’ or maybe ‘I wouldn’t have missed this for the world’, but we both know that’s not true. His coming over tonight was a gamble for him. He didn’t know I would agree. In fact, he probably figured I’d shoot him down after the shit I gave him for riding. Not to mention, this is still inappropriate as hell. But I’m caring less and less about that by the moment. Because when I’m with Carson, I feel like . . . me.

  Just Jayme Rice. Not Jayme Rice, the PR magician.

  I can’t explain that to him, but I stick with the truth. “Thank you for asking me. It’s beautiful here.” I look out over the cliff, the black sky dotted with stars and the city below a speckled area surrounded by the darkness of the mountains. You can’t help but feel insignificant when you see how small things are, and that’s just one city, in one state, in one country, on one planet.

  When I consider that, what I do seems almost silly. Who cares what one person, or even a group of people, think when it’s all a trivial percentage of a whole that’s inconceivable to most?

  “Yes, it is.”

  I feel Carson’s eyes on me and realize that however cheesy it might be, he’s complimenting me instead of the spectacular view. A small laugh tries to bubble up. “Does that usually work for you?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to tell me because I’ve never used this one before.” He reaches over, his fingers making slow, torturous trails over my own as though asking to hold my hand. My focus zeroes in on the sensitive skin there, and my fingers search for his. We intertwine our hands, his thumb still drawing shapes over my skin that make me hyperaware of his touch.

  “I guess that answers that, huh?” I whisper, the laugh finally popping free.

  Instead of laughing back with me, he frowns. “Why do you do that sometimes? Play things off as a joke instead of facing them head-on?”

  I don’t do that. Do I?

  I think back, from our first not exactly friendly meeting to now, and realize he’s right. But . . . “I think I do that with you. I guess coming into this, I expected you to be . . . different.”

  I think back to my research and the pre-conceived perceptions I had after seeing Carson on the viral video and reading what information was available online. I thought he’d be a grown-up version of a spoiled rich kid with no regard for anyone but himself.

  But he’s not. He’s something else entirely. Demanding and exacting, yes, but of himself as well as everyone around him. Blunt and confident too, in a charming, sexy way that makes me think he’s used to getting what he wants, even if he has to work for it.

  “You think I’m playing games, fucking with you?” he asks, sounding hurt.

  Wanting to explain, I say, “When I meet people, it’s usually because something catastrophic has happened. They’re not at their best, and I give a lot of grace for that. But also, to work with a variety of people, I have to figure out how to help them help themselves. Some people need a bossy bitch, others a sweet, cajoling, grandma type, others still a bestie to cheer them on. I become who my clients need me to be so they can get to the next level.”

  Gentler, he says, “Then who’s the real Jayme? I’ve met the bossy bitch, the excited cheerleader, and the brilliant idea generator. But who are you when it’s not about the client?”

  The air is heavy with his meaning. He doesn’t want to be another line-item on my list of successful campaigns. But can he be more?

  “That question is harder to answer than it sounds,” I confess.

  His thumb begins its slow strokes again. “Start at the basics. Your Wikipedia page.” I haven’t forgotten that’s what I called his basic story. He’s using my own tricks on me.

  “I already told you some of this to convince you to work with me, but . . . I have four brothers, and I’m the youngest.” I’m not sure why that’s where I start, but it seems safest.

  He winces but immediately grins. “No wonder you’re tough as hell. You had to be.”

  “You’re not wrong,” I agree, remembering the trouble my brothers gave me. “One summer, my brothers convinced me that girls did not burp. Only boys, and that any boy who heard me would never want me as a girlfriend. Never mind that I was only eight and had zero interest in boys then, but I decided I wasn’t going to burp ever again.”

  His chest is jumping as he fights back laughter. “How’d that go for you?” he chokes out.

  “Not well. I damn near exploded, trying to keep it in or run off to burp where no one could hear me.” I think back to the crazy antics I went through to not let anyone hear me, including climbing a tree in the garden out back and telling Mom that I only wanted chicken noodle soup to eat because for some reason, my childlike mind thought it wouldn’t give me any gas.

  “So then my brothers got more creative. They started drinking sodas in front of me, guzzling them and burping so loudly it rumbled their chests. And then they’d offer me a sip. I tried to say no, knowing I wouldn’t be able to hold it in, but they’d get fancy new soda flavors at the store that I couldn’t resist when they were all talking about how delicious they were. I mean, who can turn down green apple soda? Not eight-year-old me, for sure, so I’d take a drink and they’d hold me there, waiting for me to give in and burp. If I didn’t, they’d tickle me until my laughter would bubble up and bring the burp with it.”

  I laugh now, almost the way I did then, but thankfully, I don’t have a soda-filled belly tonight.

  “It sounds like you’re close,” Carson says.

  I nod, thinking that I need to call my brothers, each and every one of them. We’re scattered about with busy lives, but I’d like to think we’re still close. I know they’d do anything for me and me for them.

  “What about your parents?” Carson asks.

  Reflexively, I flinch. “They’re good. I mean, great,” I stammer.

  “Well, that’s complete bullshit.”

  Even in the dark, I can see his frown at my non-answer. He’s asking for more than he knows.

  “You know that movie Fight Club?”

  “The first rule of fight club is we don’t talk about fight club?” he quotes, his back going rigid and his jaw tight as he comes to a different conclusion than I intended.

  “Yeah, that one. But not like that. My parents really are great, but I don’t talk about them. Ever.” It’s my line in the sand. It always has been. With friends, with boyfriends, with anyone. And I hope, now more than ever, that Carson can respect that.

  “I get it. I’m not exactly running around talking about my family either. We put the fun in dysfunctional.”

  He’s trying to make me feel better and lessen the awkward vibe my declaration created. And selfishly, I let him. “They’re not that bad,” I say, but when he gives me a dubious look, I agree. “Okay, they kinda are. Your dad’s bio reads like a tabloid. At least, it did years ago.”

  Carson lets me throw the spotlight back on him, thankfully not digging into my family story any further. “I know. Esmerelda, or Izzy as she prefers . . .” He throws his voice high, imitating who I assume to be his stepmother. “She was a dancer in one of the Americana Land shows. I’m not sure how Dad and her even crossed paths because he doesn’t go into the park very often.” He pauses, tilting his head. “Actually, maybe that’s why he doesn’t go out there? I bet Izzy doesn’t want him to.”

  He shakes his head, seeming to let that speculation go. “But they met, fell in love, and she got pregnant. Dad was living two lives, one with us and the other in secret with Izzy and Toni. I guess he had it all under control, and then Mom found out. Understandably, she didn’t take it well, to say the least, even though they’d been unhappy forever and were barely roommates long before Izzy came into the picture. She basically went ballistic, saying she was going to take Dad for every penny, take the park, take Archer and me. I was old enough to understand what she was doing. She didn’t want us, or even the money, really. She wanted to embarrass Dad the way he’d embarrassed her.”

  He goes quiet, thoughts swirling behind his eyes in the dark as he stares off into the night. He’s shared way more than he did that first day when he gave me his ‘short version’ of his life, and this feels way more intimate than any Google search results.

  “It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything else,” I offer.

  His eyes clear when he looks at me, and he shakes his head. “I want to. I want to tell you. Not Jayme Rice, PR consultant, but you, Jayme.”

  It’s like he plucked the phrase right from my head. No, from my heart. I lick my lips, wanting more . . . of him, of his story, of his heart. I think he’s going to kiss me, but then he speaks again, softer this time, sounding more broken and less confident than I’ve ever heard him.

  “She took the money. In the end, she thought that’s what would hurt Dad the most, so that’s what she took. She left us with him as punishment, for him, and took as much as she could get her hands on and disappeared to live on an island somewhere. I haven’t heard from her in years. Dad barely saved Americana Land, and when he married Izzy, his lawyers demanded that he get a prenup. Izzy was furious, but eventually, she was willing to sign anything that would make Dad hers officially. Dad was all she ever wanted. And Archer and I walked into this ready-made family of three—Dad, Izzy, and Toni—as outsiders. Dad tried his best, I know he did, but I was so mad at him. In my mind, it was all his fault, or sometimes I blamed Izzy. But I get it now. He was lonely, and Mom was . . . who she was, and Dad fell in love. He should’ve handled it better, for sure, but I can’t blame him for doing what he needed to so he could be happy with the person he loves.”

  “That’s really . . . mature,” I say, not sure what to call his conclusion. “And very different from what the media portrayed back then.”

  His sneer communicates clearly exactly what he thinks of that. “They raked Dad over the coals. Like he couldn’t own a family destination unless he was without flaw. I know that I have that to look forward to, especially after this Abby Burks incident put me front and center on their radar.”

  I wish I could disagree with him, but he’s right, especially given how specific and ugly Abby’s Army have been with their cutting remarks about Carson. Comments have ranged from ‘little dick energy’ and ‘fragile male ego’ all the way to calling for Carson’s resignation and threatening daily protests at the Americana Land gates until his head—either one—is on a pike out front. “What about your siblings?” I ask carefully.

  His shrug is heavy. “Archer, we’ve talked about. He’s broken, but he never had any desire to put his pieces back together. He just slashes out at everyone around him with the jagged bits and then blames them for getting hurt. Toni is . . . amazing. She’s young, but so fucking smart. I’m protective of her because she’s gotten some shit over being Dad’s ‘love child’ or worse, but she’s old enough, and ballsy enough for sure, to handle herself.”