18+ | Eva French relocates from sunny Florida to the gritty streets of Detroit, seeking a fresh start. But her new beginning takes a dark turn when she experiences a traumatic assault on her very first night in the city. Haunted by the incident, Eva...
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Eva French
The sight of him washed away all the discomfort from my conversation with Jay. It was almost embarrassing how deeply he stirred my emotions, how utterly indulgent I felt in his presence. As I stepped out of the shop and laid eyes on him waiting for me, his tall frame leaning casually against his bike, I couldn't help but feel a rush of affection flood over me.
"Do you want to stay the night?" There was a glimmer of hope in his eyes, though his expression remained neutral. My nod was met with a visible shift from hope to relief. It made me wonder if he truly believed there were parts of me that didn't ache to spend more time with him. And because we were committed to better communication, I refused to be passive. I wanted to reciprocate the newfound openness he had shown me all weekend.
"Only if you'll have me," I replied shyly. "I'd love to."
"You're probably tired of wearing my clothes," he remarked, his tone light but with a hint of concern, as he handed me a helmet. I took it, only then noticing that although he was wearing his helmet, he had been holding a second one in his hands. This one was shiny and new, and slightly smaller. "Do you want to swing by your place to grab some of yours?"
"I think my Mom is home," I replied tentatively as he helped secure the helmet on top of my head. Did he buy one just for me?
His eyes tensed at my words, and though his jaw was hidden beneath the helmet's hard exterior, I could almost sense it clenching.
"That's fine," he said, his voice strained. "I'll come and say hi."
Surprised and somewhat speechless, I climbed on behind him, wrapping my arms securely around his waist and pressing myself against his warm and hard body.
My mother's car was parked in the driveway. As Vince pulled up beside it, a surge of nerves prickled at me. I didn't want him to be uncomfortable. I wanted to tell him he didn't have to feel obligated to come in, but as I glanced at him and saw the quiet determination etched on his face, I felt it would be rude of me to do so.
As we neared the door, it swung open preemptively, denying me the chance to grasp the handle, and there stood my mother, brows furrowed in irritation. Her eyes scanned the vicinity, undoubtedly drawn by the roar of Vince's motorcycle.
"Oh, hi honey," she greeted, her attention flickering to Vince even before she had finished speaking.
"Hi, Mom."
"Hi, Ms. French," Vince said promptly after me, taking a step forward and offering a hand to her. His voice, though not unkind, was curt and stiff. My mom regarded him with a mix of curiosity and suspicion, her eyes scanning him briefly before clasping his hand in hers.
She tilted her head to the side, her gaze drifting past him to his motorcycle before returning to his face. There was a flicker of understanding in her expression as she pieced his identity together, a conclusion reaching her eyes as she deduced that this was the boy on the bike who had caused her daughter to cry. At that moment, I regretted ever confiding in her.
