wooded landscape, quaint towns, and white-fenced estates. She didn’t know if Lance saw any of it. He was doing what he did to cope, as she would get hold of her tools and bury herself in a project, tearing out or building up, every cut perfect, every fit tight, every detail considered and executed. Losing herself. Running, maybe, as Lance was, without the speed and danger.
Danger. A flash of a blood-splattered wall, her dad’s screams, the warm, coppery scent of life escaping. She forced slow breaths, angry to be flashing back when it wasn’t even triggered by the sound and smell of a saw on wood. Only thoughts of death. Agonizing death. “Lance!”
He reached down and gripped her knee, pressing her leg against him. Was it supposed to be reassuring that he now drove with one hand? She wanted to scream, but hollered instead, “We need to stop!”
He’d heard her, she knew by the sudden deceleration, and a moment later he let go of her knee and made the arm signal for a right turn onto the exit. She gulped for breath as the wind stopped pummeling her lungs. His speed dropped dramatically as they entered the small town of Darien. A collage of Victorian, colonial, and Edwardian architecture surrounded her with picturesque shrub-lined cobblestone sidewalks that contrasted starkly with the grim streets of the Bronx.
Her limbs softened as he cruised through the town center and postcard-perfect neighborhood to a beach as lovely in its East Coast way as any she’d seen on the other. Pleasure boats bobbed in the water that lapped at the shore, white gulls winged overhead. The air smelled fresh… . Well, okay, there was still the exhaust from Rico’s bike, and her anger kicked back in when Lance brought the monster to a stop and climbed off.
She yanked off the helmet and glared.
“Wha-a-t?”
“You have to ask?”
“I said you didn’t have to come.”
“And where would you be now?”
“Farther.”
She got off the bike. “That thing is a wreck.”
“Just looks like it.”
“What about the gray smoke spewing out and its death rattle shutting off?”
Lance patted the grip. “A little rusty. Rico must not be riding much without my Harley to keep up with.”
She shook her head. “What is it with you? What does driving hellbent accomplish?”
He sent his gaze off. “It’s the miles, the motion of the road.”
“It’s running away.”
“Maybe.” His brow pinched. “I can’t really get far enough. I just have to try.”
She sighed. “Do you have to do it so fast?”
“It feels faster on a bike.”
Possible. Her road experience was in a Chevy 4x4. Lots of steel.
She looked out at the tree-lined beach, the golden sand, the cobalt water. After the noise and smell and film of carbon monoxide in the city, it was incredible. She could almost be glad they’d come. She was definitely glad they’d stopped. “Is that the Atlantic Ocean?”
He looked up as though he only now realized where he was. “Long Island Sound.”
Where would they have ended up if she hadn’t gotten through to him? Canada? She had a crazy desire to laugh—probably some hysterical release. She cocked her head and said dryly, “Where’s the picnic?” Now that the terror was over, she was starved.
He huffed. “Picnics are dangerous.”
“Picnics with me, you mean.” She recalled the raging climax of their first attempt when Lance cajoled her onto his Harley packed with wine and cheese to share in the sloping pastureland near Sonoma. She had told him no dates with employees, but did he listen? Did he ever?
He started for the shore. “We could dig for clams.”
“No thanks.” She started after him. “No slimy shellfish.”
“Ever tried it?”
She shook her head. “I love what you cook, but—”
“Say that again.”
She punched his arm. “I am not stroking your ego.”
“You punch like a man.”
“Good.”
He stopped at the water’s edge with a restless look that made her wonder if he would ever
Danger. A flash of a blood-splattered wall, her dad’s screams, the warm, coppery scent of life escaping. She forced slow breaths, angry to be flashing back when it wasn’t even triggered by the sound and smell of a saw on wood. Only thoughts of death. Agonizing death. “Lance!”
He reached down and gripped her knee, pressing her leg against him. Was it supposed to be reassuring that he now drove with one hand? She wanted to scream, but hollered instead, “We need to stop!”
He’d heard her, she knew by the sudden deceleration, and a moment later he let go of her knee and made the arm signal for a right turn onto the exit. She gulped for breath as the wind stopped pummeling her lungs. His speed dropped dramatically as they entered the small town of Darien. A collage of Victorian, colonial, and Edwardian architecture surrounded her with picturesque shrub-lined cobblestone sidewalks that contrasted starkly with the grim streets of the Bronx.
Her limbs softened as he cruised through the town center and postcard-perfect neighborhood to a beach as lovely in its East Coast way as any she’d seen on the other. Pleasure boats bobbed in the water that lapped at the shore, white gulls winged overhead. The air smelled fresh… . Well, okay, there was still the exhaust from Rico’s bike, and her anger kicked back in when Lance brought the monster to a stop and climbed off.
She yanked off the helmet and glared.
“Wha-a-t?”
“You have to ask?”
“I said you didn’t have to come.”
“And where would you be now?”
“Farther.”
She got off the bike. “That thing is a wreck.”
“Just looks like it.”
“What about the gray smoke spewing out and its death rattle shutting off?”
Lance patted the grip. “A little rusty. Rico must not be riding much without my Harley to keep up with.”
She shook her head. “What is it with you? What does driving hellbent accomplish?”
He sent his gaze off. “It’s the miles, the motion of the road.”
“It’s running away.”
“Maybe.” His brow pinched. “I can’t really get far enough. I just have to try.”
She sighed. “Do you have to do it so fast?”
“It feels faster on a bike.”
Possible. Her road experience was in a Chevy 4x4. Lots of steel.
She looked out at the tree-lined beach, the golden sand, the cobalt water. After the noise and smell and film of carbon monoxide in the city, it was incredible. She could almost be glad they’d come. She was definitely glad they’d stopped. “Is that the Atlantic Ocean?”
He looked up as though he only now realized where he was. “Long Island Sound.”
Where would they have ended up if she hadn’t gotten through to him? Canada? She had a crazy desire to laugh—probably some hysterical release. She cocked her head and said dryly, “Where’s the picnic?” Now that the terror was over, she was starved.
He huffed. “Picnics are dangerous.”
“Picnics with me, you mean.” She recalled the raging climax of their first attempt when Lance cajoled her onto his Harley packed with wine and cheese to share in the sloping pastureland near Sonoma. She had told him no dates with employees, but did he listen? Did he ever?
He started for the shore. “We could dig for clams.”
“No thanks.” She started after him. “No slimy shellfish.”
“Ever tried it?”
She shook her head. “I love what you cook, but—”
“Say that again.”
She punched his arm. “I am not stroking your ego.”
“You punch like a man.”
“Good.”
He stopped at the water’s edge with a restless look that made her wonder if he would ever
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