Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
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?