Love Me Like You Do: Books That Keep You In Bed

by Fields, MJ

  “Leo almost died on his bike when I was a kid. Some asshole on the freeway cut him off and he slid three lanes over and stopped when his tires tangled with the wire divider in the median. No helmet. You can still see the gravel scars around his right ear.”

  Shit. That’s not the response I expected, but it sells her point well.

  “Helmet from now on,” I say, slicking my hair back from my forehead while stepping over the bike and closing the tiny space between us. My fingertips graze her bare elbows, still bent as she holds the mystery package. She’s showered and changed since our workout, the ends of her hair still wet and thick in waves. She put on a black T-shirt and these white shorts that hang low on her hips and look like they belong on a beach just like she does.

  “That have something to do with your visit to your dad?” I gesture toward her hands.

  She offers a lopsided smile and then hands the thin bundle to me. It’s wrapped in a folded page from a spiral notebook and a rubber band. I begin to slide it off as she explains.

  “You’re facing Omar Morales soon. My dad always saved his scorecards, and I got to thinking…Leo probably saves things too. My dad had a theory that a man fights the way the man behind him taught him to.”

  I start to flip through the stack of cards, none of them Omar’s fights. I’m not sure I understand. Omar never trained here.

  “I snagged one of the boxes up in his room on my way out, but I found most of these in Leo’s files in the office.”

  My brow pulls in, still confused.

  “Here, look.” Her hands tangle with mine and I’m no longer really looking at the cards, just her—her hands, her arms, her body moving into position next to me. She’s close, arm brushing against mine as she flips through cards. I should look at what she’s doing; I should pay attention. She put effort into this because she felt it was important, but my God her hair is falling in her face and twists are sliding down her bare shoulder until it masks my view from everything.

  I breathe.

  She sweeps her hair over her neck opposite of me and tilts her head, her eyes meeting mine. There’s the quiet laugh. And then the smile.

  “Sorry, my hair is not cooperating today,” she says.

  “I like it, I mean…” I lick my bottom lip and bite the end of my tongue, laughing at myself. “I mean it looks nice.”

  A pink blush hits her cheeks, but just for a flash.

  “Thanks,” she whispers.

  After a long quiet second or two, I clear my throat and look down at the cards again.

  “Right, like I was saying. It’s the same guys working with Omar. We’ve seen these guys a lot. Between my dad and Leo and the guys that have come and gone through this place, we probably have the motherload of data at our fingertips. Unfortunately, we don’t have a single technical soul in a ten-mile radius to do anything with the data, so I guess you’ll just have to see what you see in these things. But I thought…well…these are the guys prepping Omar, and here’s their history. Might help you better understand the man you’re stepping in the ring with.”

  Her gesture puts a pause in my heartbeat, like a skip. Maybe it beat, but I didn’t feel it because of feeling so much else right now here with this amazingly thoughtful woman.

  “Is this dumb? Maybe it’s dumb, but I don’t know. My dad said he learned more by seeing where a guy liked to rack up his points than he did from anything. He’d look at these and then close his eyes and recreate the entire damn fight from numbers and rounds, and—”

  “It isn’t dumb,” I cut in.

  Her lips are parted and a little desperate for approval. She eyes me, suspiciously. She thinks I’m placating her, but I’m not. I’m awed by her for other reasons entirely.

  “Really, I promise,” I say, taking the cards into my hands completely and folding them together to bundle again with the rubber band. “I like it. I mean…I think it’s a good idea. It was…”

  I stumble because I don’t want to belittle what she did, and calling it sweet feels like it does just that.

  “Kind of you,” I say, instantly knowing that wasn’t the right set of words either, and maybe even worse than sweet.

  “I mean, sweet. Or helpful…thoughtful. Fuck.” I run my hand up my face and through my hair, leaving my palm on top of my head, fingers gripping at strands while my face heats up.

  Liv’s lips close and form a tiny smile that turns into a kiss on the corner of my mouth. She smells so damn good that I want to sweep her up in my arms and set her on my bike and throw the cards all over the parking lot, but I made a promise that I would wait for her to say when, and more importantly, for her demons to be put to bed, if at least not put on warning.

  “Let me put these inside real quick, then we can check on Miles.” I linger on her face for a beat, sliding steps backward gradually while I gnaw at the inside of my mouth looking for her flaw. I don’t think there is one.

  I drop them inside and grab both helmets, handing her one to wear and doing as I promised, I put mine on, too. It’s a cool night, August slipping into September. The bite from the harsh summer heat isn’t as smothering as it usually is, so the wind that hits us on our ride is exhilarating rather than painful.

  Liv’s hands hold at my hips, so when we pull up to a red light, I reach down and thread my fingers in between hers and slide her grip forward, to my stomach. Her head rests in the center of my back, her fit so natural. It’s like my dad knew one day I’d find this bike and the girl that went with it.

  I glance enough to the side to see her knee hugging my thigh, and I smile.

  “Hold on,” I say, punching it when her fingers grip at my T-shirt.

  The streets are empty around this part of town this late at night. It’s the reason so many homeless find their way to this park; fewer people to hassle them. I throttle down as we round onto the one-way street that’s closest to where Miles normally is, and I roll to the curb so we can look closely.

  “I can’t tell if he’s here,” I say, after taking my helmet off and scanning the dark park for nearly a minute.

  Liv’s hands run along my shoulders, and her weight shifts until she’s slid from my bike to the ground. She pulls her helmet off too and hands it to me. I won’t let her walk through that park alone, so I kill the engine, rest the helmets on the seat, and pull the keys, gripping them in my right hand and taking her hand in my other.

  “Something’s wrong,” she says, noticing just as I do. Miles is back where he usually is, but his chest is bare, and so are his feet. The closer we get, the clearer it becomes that he’s been jumped, probably defending this stupid tree.

  Miles told me once that people have to act a little crazy out here, even when they’re not, to make people question the worth of messing with them. The problem with that is it’s hard to sort out who is really having delusions and who isn’t. The act just goes on and on, too, because getting mental health care out here is damned near impossible.

  “I’m fine, Champ. Don’t worry, it was just a setback and I’ve got some new things on the way.” It’s clear when Miles talks that his lip is swollen, and he’s sitting enough in the light that I can see the red bruising on his eyebrow.

  “You just wanted to look like me, I know how you are,” I snigger, kneeling down as I joke. He’s embarrassed, and doesn’t want me to think in any way that he can’t stick up for himself. It’s the war hero in him.

  “Hell, I ain’t as ugly as you are, fool.” His laugh is a welcome sound, even if it’s eventually drowned out by his persistent cough.

  “Yeah, yeah.” I say, relieved to at least see the fresh bandages on his foot are still there. “I tell you what, how about until I need them, you hang on to these for me.”

  I fall to my ass and lift my foot up to pull my shoes off. Miles reaches for my hand to stop me, but I brush his attempt off. He doesn’t have anything new on the way. He’s going to deal with it; that’s what that means. I can deal with riding home shirtless in my socks a lot more than h
e can survive out here like that for a night. I toss the first shoe at him and start unlacing the second one. My size is a little bigger than his, maybe by a half, so I make a mental note that the next time I come I need to bring another pair or two of socks.

  “I’m leaving them here, so if you don’t put them on, one of those punk-ass druggies you’re always talking about is going to pick them up and I know you don’t want that to happen to my Jordan-Eights,” I say, standing.

  Miles sneers at me, but after a few seconds, he starts slipping his injured foot into the shoe. It goes in easier than normal because of the size difference. While he starts the next one, I reach behind my neck and pull my shirt up over my head, tossing that in his lap next.

  “Boy, you stop this. I don’t need your damn shirt,” he says, tossing it to the dirt next to him.

  I shrug and push my hands in my pockets. I glance to Liv at my side and she gives me a crooked smile, her eyes scanning down to my feet. I move my toes up and down a few times, and she giggles silently before shaking her head.

  “All right then, you give them my shirt if you want to. That one’s just a Hanes, so no big. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, walking away without giving him any more time to argue.

  Liv rushes up to my side quickly, fitting her hand back in mine, and I glance down at how natural and easy that was for her to do.

  “You can’t drive a motorcycle like that,” she says, and I grin away from her. I thought the very same thing, only I’d already gotten Miles to take one of my shoes by the time the thought hit me, so I came up with plan B.

  “I know,” I say, my pace unchanged.

  “Okay, so…” I know she’s thinking what I’m thinking, but there’s no way in hell she’ll utter it out loud. She figures if she doesn’t say it, it won’t happen.

  We get to my bike and I hand her my helmet. Her head tilts and her eyes narrow.

  “Absolutely not,” she says.

  I shrug and start to walk back toward Miles. I get a few steps before I turn to face her, but keep walking backward.

  “I’m not going to get my shoes back, just so you know. I figured if we’re staying here, might as well be by the best damn tree in the world,” I say, pointing over my shoulder.

  I slow my steps when she huffs, and when she holds her hand out to take my helmet, I begin to drift back toward her.

  “You’ll do fine. It’s just like riding a bike.” I snort-laugh, and she punches my arm.

  “Ow,” I chastise.

  “Well someone shouldn’t have told me about balance and all that shit. Just show me what I’ve gotta do.” She gets on the bike without pause and puts her hands on the grips, feeling around at the gear and leaning from side to side looking for something more to do.

  “It’s really that simple,” I say, slipping the other helmet on and sliding down the shield on hers. If she’s in front, I don’t want her having anything interrupt her eyes on the road.

  “Your gears are here,” I tab next to her left foot. “When I tell you, you’re going to squeeze right here and lift here with your foot,” I take her hand underneath mine and we feel the grip of the clutch together. I show her where to shift, the best place for her to put her hands for the gas and brakes, and the ignition. Then I move to her feet, showing her how to hit the gears, something we can probably get away with only doing three times if we can hit the lights just right. It’s a pretty simple bike, really. It looks like there would be more to it, but the rumble this baby makes is more bark than it is bite.

  “That’s a lot to remember,” she says, turning to face me, her eyes lit up by the streetlamp. I lean forward and nudge my helmet against hers, so we’re staring closely.

  “It’s two things. Maybe three. Now stop being a baby and drive our asses home.” She glowers a little, but her lips hint at a smile, too.

  I slide in behind her, my legs balancing the bike for us while I move my hands to hers one more time as a refresher.

  “I will be right here. If you get nervous, ease up here, and we’ll stop. Take an hour to go two miles if you have to.” Her helmet-covered head nods, and I let her go through things again on her own as she mutters my directions back.

  “You’ll be fine,” I say, closing the space between us. Her shirt has slid off her left shoulder, and her bronzed skin shines under the light. I’d kiss it if my damned helmet wasn’t in the way.

  I slow my breathing and let my chest rise and fall so she can feel it; eventually she mimics it in her own body. She turns the key and the bike rumbles to a start. She gives it just a touch of the gas to kick in.

  “Good,” I say, liking how it feels to hold her here, like this. She’s so small against me right now, and all of those instinctual caveman things are filling my chest with this overwhelming need to hold her tighter. This is too dangerous to make her do, and she’s too exposed. I should call us a cab, just leave the bike. Or call someone, Amy maybe, to come pick her up first. Hell, even Leo.

  Without much warning, Liv squeezes the clutch and pops the gear and we’re rolling.

  “Shit, Memphis! Shit, shit, shit.” Her body grows tense with her panic.

  “You’re fine; this is fine. Watch the road, and give it gas. We’re gonna go up another gear,” I shout over the motor’s roar.

  We cruise around the park, taking the corners at a crawl until we have nothing but green lights and a straight shot ahead of us.

  “Shift and go,” I say, but she doesn’t go at first, and the bike feels a little wobbly under us.

  “I can’t, Memphis. I need to stop. How do I stop?” She’s yelling, and her hands are feeling around frantically, so I lean forward and hold her arms, doing my best to steady with my weight.

  “You’re fine, Liv. Trust me, just give it some gas and find your balance,” I say, waiting out the next five or six seconds while she looks for courage. The green lights ahead are stale, so I know she’s got to hit the next gear now and punch it for us to get through this without starting all over.

  “I’ve got you,” I say, focusing on the feel of my chest filling with air, my body against her warm back, the small movements she makes that affect me.

  “Okay. Hold on,” she says, squeezing and moving up another gear, giving it a burst of gas that jets us forward a little faster than she wants. “Oh my God!”

  “Just one more. Right now; do it now,” I yell.

  She does it without hesitation because at this point I think it’s easier than stopping, and we sail through the first of four intersections. She’s in a zone. All I do is hold her steady with my hands at her waist. My eyes are on the road as I peer just over her shoulder, and the white dashes of the lane striping are beginning to blur into solid as we pick up speed.

  One more intersection down. The walk sign ahead is starting to flash, so I lean my chin over her shoulder, lifting myself a bit on the back pegs.

  “You better gun it,” I say, and she starts to turn her head to look at me, but flashes right back to the road.

  I’m not sure if it’s the vibration of the bike or her nerves shaking her hands, but it doesn’t stop her. She starts to squeeze the clutch, so I sit down and focus. Her shift is smoother this time, and we don’t jump forward or hiccup like we did the first time. The bike gains speed quickly, which means steering and balance are more important now. We fly through the final two intersections. I guide her through gearing down and braking, the bike slowing quickly until it’s at a comfortable crawl that lets me help her guide it up the curb and into the back alley, close enough to my RV to leave it for the night.

  She makes quick work of killing the engine, and she doesn’t wait to pull the keys out before she crawls off the bike and pulls her helmet from her head, her hair matted with sweat and her knuckles white from squeezing so hard.

  I pull my helmet off and grab the keys, kicking my leg over and taking her helmet, which she’s desperate to give back to me.

  “I am much better at riding on the back,” she says.

  �
��Oh, come on, you love the thrill,” I chuckle. I walk to my steps and unlock the door, tossing the helmets inside on the floor before sitting on the top stoop and resting my hands on my knees. My socks are jacked, but it was worth it seeing her do something like that, something she probably never thought she could.

  “I’m over thrills, Memphis. I’m all about sedans and seatbelts,” she says, shaking out her arms and flexing her fingers to bring feeling back to them.

  I laugh because she’s cute when she’s free. I lean back, my elbows resting on the floor inside my place, and I spend a few seconds admiring her until she starts to realize what I’m doing and guards her motions and words a little more.

  “What are you looking at?” Her brow is pinched in the middle.

  “I wish you could see what I see right now,” I say, my eyes roaming down to her feet then back up to her bit lip. “There she is.”

  “Who?” she asks, twisted lips in a cockeyed smile.

  I don’t answer because there aren’t really words for this moment right here. I don’t want to ruin it with my small description. She doesn’t need to hear it anyhow. She knows. It’s the reason she’s glowing, the reason her lips are cherry red and effortless in their smile. It’s why her eyes are bright and wide, and her arms aren’t folded around her chest, closing off the world.

  Instead, I watch and wonder, letting my eyes focus on all of her little, nervous habits, and the small things that make Liv who she is. Nails that are bitten down to nothing, beads and string for bracelets, and a small tattoo on the inside of her wrist. Her hair has nearly dried, the twists tangled and a little wilder from being ripped in the wind under her helmet while we rode the bike. Her socks are short, barely there at all, and her legs are long and muscular and smooth, like she maybe thought about having them touched.

  My lips settle into a comfortable smile when my eyes make their way back to hers. Her head tilted in suspicion, she’s still blushing from the attention. I think she’s worried I’m going to throw her back on the bike or some other thing she’s never done just to watch her experience a first time.