Kiss or Kill Under the Northern Lights

by Susan Johnson

  Laz didn’t ask his motivation for the request, and Kerry was glad. Laz simply grunted his assent and steered the wheelchair toward the elevators.

  Kerry had no idea if Lucy was working that day, or that hour. If she wasn’t, then he was off the hook. But if she was…

  She was there. Standing at the nurse’s station, no less.

  He placed his hands on the wheels to stop the forward movement of the wheelchair and gaped. She hadn’t looked that dynamite when she’d peeled him off the pavement, had she?

  Laz came around the chair. He looked at Kerry, then at the nurse’s station, then back at Kerry.

  “Could you give me a moment?” Kerry said.

  Laz waved toward the chairs in the lobby. “I’ll wait there.”

  Kerry pushed himself out of the wheelchair and took the few steps to the nurse’s station.

  “Lucy.” His voice was scratchy and quiet.

  Instead of Lucy, it was another nurse who asked, “Can I help you?”

  He shook his head and cleared his throat. “Lucy!”

  She turned, and he was relieved to see the bruise he’d given her was already fading. She looked at him blankly for a moment. Then her face split into a grin. “Kerry?”

  He didn’t even mind her using his given name. He just smiled back at her.

  “It’s really you!” She came around the counter.

  He patted his chest, then his head. “And all in one piece.”

  “I wondered how things had turned out,” she said.

  He answered the question he knew she wanted to ask. “Doc says there will be no lasting effects,” he said. “Just some short-term dizziness.”

  “That’s to be expected,” she said.

  “They should stop within a few weeks and I’ll be ready to get back on the motorcycle.”

  “Oh Kerry, do you have to?”

  “What? Ride?” he said.

  “It’s so dangerous.”

  “It’s who I am.” He gave her Mercury’s trademark grin. “Mercury. Remember?”

  She cocked her head. “I don’t think that’s all you are,” she said softly.

  He stared at her. He didn’t have a comeback for that. He was really losing his touch. He shook himself mentally. “You don’t understand,” he said. “Riding is freedom.”

  She looked doubtful.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “If you ever feel like taking a ride—to see what it’s really like—you look me up and I’ll take you.”

  He knew by the look on her face that it would never happen, and he was surprised to feel disappointment.

  “Anyway, I just came by to say thanks,” he said. “For looking out for me… and I’m sorry I hit you. I would never hurt you. Normally, I mean.”

  “I know,” she said. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

  5

  Ten days of no riding was enough to make a man stir-crazy.

  So was the vertigo.

  It came and went without warning, ensuring Kerry didn’t get on the motorcycle even though he desperately wanted to.

  The doc said it was normal.

  Lucy said it was normal.

  Lucy.

  He didn’t know what possessed him to track down her phone number. To text her. And now he’d been having strange dreams about that woman…

  A knock roused him from his wayward thoughts. Stifling a groan, he rose and went to the door. Peering through the peephole, he could make out the shape of a woman.

  Couldn’t be.

  He swung the door open. “Lucy?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  “You missed your doctor appointment,” she said. “That’s the second time.”

  “Yeah, well.” How did she know about his missed appointments? The same way she knew his address, most likely; perhaps a friend in the records department? The woman was resourceful, he’d give her that. “Doctors and I are not compatible.”

  “I understand,” she said. “Me neither.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  She grinned. “It’d be pretty tough to work there all day if I was serious.”

  “Is this a house call?”

  “If it is, then I’m going to have to charge you.” She fidgeted with her purse strap. “Can I come in?”

  He considered that for a moment; he didn’t remember the last time he’d let a woman in his apartment. “Sure.”

  He stepped back, watching the way her hips swayed as she passed him and entered the living room. He liked it. He liked it a lot.

  She stopped in the center of the room, turning slowly as if taking in her surroundings.

  He took her in. Seeing her outside the hospital, dressed in regular street clothes, confirmed his suspicions: she had curves in all the right places. Her hair flowed down her back in loose waves, just begging for a hand to run through them.

  “You have so much art,” she said.

  He started. “What, bikers aren’t supposed to like art?” He sounded defensive.

  Get a grip, Merc.

  She turned toward him, her eyes running from his face to his shoulders, taking in his sleeveless tee shirt and lingering on his tattoo… Assessing him. “I like your art.” Her voice was soft. “It just wasn’t what I was expecting.”

  He felt like he should apologize, but she was going on already. “Your whole place is light and airy. It’s nice.”

  His apartment was intentionally a direct contrast to the Strikers clubhouse, which was dark and chaotic. This was his refuge. “Thanks.”

  She was just standing there, looking at him.

  Awkward.

  “Would you, um, like a soda or something?” he said.

  “Sure.”

  He headed toward the kitchen, trying to disguise the slight limp that remained from the accident. To his surprise, she followed. He was glad he’d picked up the place earlier.

  He opened the refrigerator and bent to look inside. “I’ve got Coke, orange juice…” A wave of dizziness washed over him. One hand tightened on the refrigerator handle as the other reached toward the counter.

  He felt a hand on his arm and raised his head as the dizziness receded. She was so close—close enough to kiss, he thought crazily—and her eyes, on his, were impossibly blue.

  “A Coke would be great.” She reached past him and helped herself to a can. Then she took a seat at his table as if nothing had happened and looked at him expectantly.

  She looked good there, in his home… at his table. He shook his head, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, and took a seat across from her. “I don’t mean this in a negative way,” he said, “but… why are you here?”

  She blushed. Actually blushed. Damn, it was adorable…

  “To be honest, I don’t really know,” she said. “I just thought about you a lot, wondered how you were doing, and I figured…” She set the can down. “Is it okay? Would you rather I leave?”

  “No.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I just thought… you have to admit, you and I are unlikely friends.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But we did sort of go through a bonding experience.”

  “I thought facing down biker gang members and hassling a poor guy who just wanted to sleep was all in day’s work for you,” he teased.

  “Oh no,” she said. “My life is actually pretty boring.”

  Silence. Memories skittered in his head: Lucy in the ambulance… the relief in her voice when he first woke in the ER…

  “Your bruise is gone,” he said.

  Her hand flew to her cheek, and he couldn’t help noticing her delicate bones again. “It was no big deal.”

  He snorted. “Don’t tell me that’s all in a day’s work?”

  To his surprise, she flushed. “Tell me about your job,” she said.

  She wanted to turn the tables… well, that was only fair.

  “I work on bikes. Custom motorcycles,” he elaborated. “One-offs. Bikes that are like no other. It’s cool. Cooler than I ever thought. I even li
ke the people.”

  “That surprises you?”

  “I guess the part that surprises me is that I don’t mind being committed to it,” he said. “There was a time not too long ago I didn’t care to be tied to anything or anyone.”

  He stopped. He wasn’t in the habit of having entire conversations with a woman—and especially not sharing details about his younger days.

  “Where did you learn to work on motorcycles?”

  He hesitated. But it was who he was, after all. “Those guys with me when I crashed,” he said. “They took me in when I had nowhere to go. They got me started, but then Laz pretty much taught me everything I know.”

  Her eyes appraised him again. He looked out the window at the perfectly blue sky—a match to her eyes. “I can’t wait to get back on the motorcycle,” he said.

  “Please don’t, Kerry!”

  The emotion in her voice caught him off guard. “Lucy…”

  “You’re going to get killed on that thing!”

  “No,” he said.

  “But what about the dizziness?” she said. “What if that happens when you’re on the motorcycle?”

  “The dizziness will end,” he said. “It’s already way better.”

  “I don’t understand why you insist on doing something so dangerous,” she said.

  “It’s not any more dangerous than other things.”

  “Of course it is! If you could have seen yourself—” She stopped abruptly.

  He tried to imagine what she’d seen that day he crashed. He let his voice go soft. “So that’s what this is about.”

  “I don’t want to see you in the ER again.” Her voice went whispery. “I’m afraid if I do, you won’t be so lucky.”

  “Riding is what I do,” he said. “It’s who I am. If I die riding, then I’ve died doing something I love. It’s not something I’m going to give up.”

  Not for any woman, he added silently. “If you really want to understand what riding is, what it means, you’d take a ride with me.”

  She shook her head, and he could read the fear in her eyes.

  He sighed. “Then you have no right to judge my lifestyle.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “I know,” he said. “You were just concerned about me. But you don’t have to be. In fact, you have no right to be.”

  He saw the flash of hurt in her eyes and regretted his words immediately, but he didn’t know how to take them back.

  She set the Coke can down. “I should be going,” she said. “Thanks for the drink.”

  He stood. “Any time.”

  He saw her out, then watched through the window as she climbed into her car. He’d hurt her feelings. But it was better this way.

  6

  Kerry slapped the leather lapel of his jacket with his free hand. Why was he nervous?

  Because you’re about to be turned down, moron.

  He shushed his inner voice and stepped up to Lucy’s door. In the three weeks since she’d come by, he had healed and gone back to work—and back to riding. But it was different somehow. And not just because he rode alone, or with a couple of the guys from Lazlo’s, instead of his buddies from the clubhouse.

  He couldn’t seem to get Lucy out of his head. He wanted her to understand his world, his life. His need to ride. But why? Why was it so important to him?

  Ten seconds later Lucy stood in the doorway. “Kerry?” Her eyes went wide with surprise. “Why… I mean…”

  “I came to give you that ride,” Kerry said.

  She looked past him to the motorcycle parked on the street. “I’m not riding that death machine.”

  “I thought you might say that.” He held up a helmet. “I got you your own helmet.”

  She looked from him to the helmet, and back to him. Something in her eyes encouraged him to issue the challenge: “Come on, Lucy. It’s time to stop being afraid and to start living.”

  As he watched, the fear in her eyes turned to something else. Determination, perhaps. She drew herself taller. “I’ll go if you wear a helmet.”

  “You drive a hard bargain,” he said. “But okay.”

  She blinked.

  “Called your bluff, didn’t I?” he said.

  “All the time.” She crossed her arms. “You wear the helmet all the time, not just today, and I’ll go for a ride with you. A short ride.”

  It was his turn to blink.

  “No bluff,” she said. “It’s a fair deal. I’ll put my life in the hands of the guy who crashed just weeks ago if you’ll wear a helmet.”

  “Hey, now,” he said. “That crash was totally the cager’s fault.”

  “Cager?”

  “It’s what we call people who drive cars,” he said. “I’m a very safe driver.”

  “You’d better be,” she mumbled as she stared at the helmet.

  He continued to stare at her, vividly aware of how much trust he was asking for from someone who didn’t really know him.

  “Well?” She brought her eyes back to his. “Do we have a deal?”

  “Damn, woman.” He couldn’t hold back the smile. “All right, I give. Now come on. The road’s a-calling.”

  Kerry helped Lucy into her helmet and onto his motorcycle, still amazed that she’d agreed to this. He had to give her credit; the woman had spunk.

  The half-helmet he’d borrowed from LazLo’s felt foreign on his head, but Lucy’s arms firmly clamped around his midsection were a small price to pay for that slight discomfort.

  He started the engine, patted her hand, and put the motorcycle in gear before she could change her mind.

  As he pulled forward, he felt her tuck her head into his back. She squeezed so hard he almost couldn’t breathe. If she’d been plywood he could have snapped her in two, she was so tense.

  He would keep the ride short and not too twisty. He turned onto a wide two-lane road and instead of ripping it up like he would have a few weeks ago, he puttered along.

  After a while, Lucy’s death grip loosened. Eventually her hands slipped down to his hips. He wouldn’t say she was relaxed, but it was definitely a step in the right direction.

  He became aware of her thighs pressed against his hips, and when her hands roamed from his hips across his belly and up onto his chest, he had to remind himself to keep his attention on the road. Did she realize how that distracted him?

  He turned his head, intending to tease her, and their helmets clunked. He’d almost forgotten he was wearing one; maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to wear it more often. “There’s a park up here a couple miles. Thought you might like to stop there.”

  “Eyes on the road!” she said.

  He chuckled, but he acquiesced.

  A few minutes later, he slowed for the turn, and her arms clamped around him again. He pulled into an overlook and came to a graceful stop. He turned off the motor.

  For several long moments, neither moved. He felt her exhale.

  He got off the bike, being careful not to kick her as he did. “I think maybe we should take a break.”

  “Good idea.” She wrestled her helmet off, and he could only stare at all that dark hair, cascading from the helmet like a slow-motion commercial. Then he noticed she was shivering.

  “Are you cold?” he said.

  She shook her head. “I think it’s adrenaline.”

  She held one hand out to him, and he steadied her as she got off the motorcycle. For someone who’d never ridden before, her dismount was surprisingly graceful.

  Or maybe he just thought so.

  “You surprise me,” Kerry said. They sat on a grassy knoll that overlooked the town of Sparks. It was one of his favorite spots, a place he’d never shared with anyone else. “I sort of had you pegged as a pansy.”

  “Pansy?”

  He shrugged apologetically, and she laughed. “I admit I’ve surprised myself,” she said. “But you really did make it easy.”

  “I did?”

  “It’s like the motorcycle is an extension of your
body.” She made a sliding motion with her hands. “Smooooth.”

  He joined with her as she chuckled, then cleared his throat. “You’re a natural.”

  She punched him lightly on the arm. “Liar.”

  “No, really,” he said. “You even leaned into the curves.”

  She laughed again, a sound that made the space around him lighter than air. “The only leaning I did was into you.”

  Oh, I noticed.

  For a moment he thought he’d said it out loud, but no.

  “Tell me about your art,” she said.

  “My art?”

  “On your walls,” she said. “In your apartment. Who are the artists, and what do you like about them?”

  He rested his weight on his hands behind him; no one had ever asked him about his art. Of course, very few people had ever seen his walls—let alone the stacks of paintings he kept in a closet.

  “Well,” he said. “I have quite a few of Edward Hopper’s. I especially like a series he did of lighthouses and stately mansion-like homes in the early twenties.”

  “The one of the lighthouse, with the brilliant sunset behind it,” she said. “Is that one of his?”

  She’d stood in his living room only a few minutes, yet she remembered that painting? “Yes, that’s his.”

  “What about the one of the rough-looking man?” she said. “With the sort of worried look on his face?”

  Kerry knew immediately which painting she was referring to. “That’s John Singer Sargent,” he said. “He titled that one The Tramp.”

  “That one reminds me of you,” she said. “The look on his face and in his eyes.”

  Kerry was momentarily struck dumb. She couldn’t have known that he’d felt an odd kinship with the subject of that painting the first time he’d laid eyes on it…

  “It reminds me of the kids I grew up with,” he blurted. Shit, was he really going there?

  Apparently, he was, because he heard himself saying, “I grew up in a boys’ home. A lot of the kids there had that sort of look.”

  Including me.

  Lucy had told him earlier that she’d had a very ordinary, all-American middle-class-with-two-parents-and-two-siblings upbringing. She probably had no concept of what childhood in an orphanage was like—and he’d rather keep it that way.