I wonder what more business we could have together. He got me out of the bar, and away from those thugs—it's not as if I expect anything more from him. I feel a chill that has nothing to do with the rain sweep through me suddenly: what if he expects a repayment of a different kind? My attraction to Flint suddenly seems like the most dangerous thing that could be used against me.
He walks back out into the rain, and I curse myself for my indecision. I might have had a chance to run. I hate to think that's not what I wanted. I know I'm a smart woman—I've evaded detection this long—but tonight, I feel like I'm making one dumb mistake after another. And it's all thanks to a dangerous-looking, dark stranger dressed in leather.
He approaches me, and I manage to tame my tremors long enough to hold myself proud and erect. I realize some of the effect is lost, however, once I remember I'm wearing the helmet. I move to flip the visor up, but he captures my hand before I can accomplish this and slips a key card into my hand. I blink down at it stupidly, and hold my breath for his explanation.
"We can't ride any further in this weather," he says eventually. "And I only had enough cash on me for one room. It would have been different if they took cards. Very different."
He says this last part almost to himself, but I ignore it. I don't have the energy to deal with enigmatic statements; I have to tackle the present, and the obvious. I turn the key over and wave it at him.
"I can't accept this." My voice is muffled by the helmet. "Please. I'll get my own room."
Somehow. Suddenly, I remember that I left my credit card back at the bar. I think the odds of the men seizing it are pretty good, once they've regained consciousness. My heart sinks at the thought. It was under a fake name paired with a false ID, but it was stupid of me to use it. I should have carried cash all along, like Flint.
"Can't hear you with the helmet on," he responds. He grabs his bike and starts to walk it around the side of the main building. I watch him stride away, the corners of his coat flapping in the wind. I frown despite myself, but of course that isn't apparent with the helmet on, either. I can't decide if he's being serious or not. Maybe it's curiosity that drives me to follow.
"I want to thank you for all you've done," I say as I reach up and remove the helmet. I regret it almost instantly, because now the rain has full freedom to assault my face and batter my hair around. I hasten to catch up to him. "But you don't have to do anymore. I can figure the rest out."
"You're damn right," he replies. His tone is neutral, but his words surprise me. He leads us over to a two-story strip of rooms. I take shelter beneath the second floor balcony as he parks his bike. He moves beneath the shelter of the balcony and snatches his helmet out of my hands without even bothering to request its return. A frown draws down my lips. I have a feeling I should be angry, but all I feel is confused. Again, my confusion is what prompts me to follow him into the room as he swipes his own card and pushes open the door.
"Did I do something to piss you off?" It wasn't the question I’d intended, but it's the one we both got. The room is small and seedy, but warm. I pull my hair out from behind my shoulders, twist it into a dark crimson rope, and wrestle to wring the water from it. I watch as the rain drops I manage to milk from my tresses coalesce and drop to the floor, forming a puddle at my feet. I'm only momentarily distracted from our conversation because I'm trying to see whether or not the hair dye is still evident in the aftermath of a "rinse.”
"I'm not angry." He doesn't look at me, and there is a hard edge to Flint's voice as he tosses his helmet down on the bed, but somehow I believe him. If he's angry, it seems self-directed. I realize that I probably shouldn't continue to press him, especially when we're going to be sharing close quarters for what appears to be the night.
Just how close our quarters are suddenly becomes apparent when my eyes flicker to the bed, following the trajectory of the motorcycle helmet—one bed. One.
Is he kidding? Suddenly, I'm afraid that my paranoid thoughts from the parking lot are about to come true. Maybe Flint does expect me to repay him with sexual favors; if not the favors themselves, then maybe he is still going to request that I submit my body to whatever repayment he has in mind.
There is a definite tension increasingly thickening the air between us, but somehow, I don't think it's the prologue to a request. I continue to stand in the doorway, rigid like a rain-soaked rabbit that can't decide which way to turn and run. Flint shakes the water from his hair like a dog; I think I see his eyes track over his shoulder for a moment to pinpoint me, but in the next instant I'm sure I've imagined it. He still doesn't turn around, and instead settles for whipping his coat off his wide shoulders and tossing it into a wet heap in the cushion of the chair.
I suck in a quick breath.
Beneath the jacket, Flint wears a chain necklace around his neck; beneath that is a white T-shirt that is plastered tightly to the contours of his back and torso. The too-thin material rucks up in places where his muscles move and ripple beneath his road-tanned skin. He yanks at the hem of the shirt to pull it down and turns, and despite feeling as if I'm half-drowned, my mouth goes suddenly dry.
I gaze at him openly, and I can't remember the last thing that was said between us. I knew from the bar that he was fit, but this exhibition feels almost insulting. I quickly distract myself by crossing the room, trailing water behind me as I snatch his leather jacket up from the seat of the chair.
"You need to hang this up," I mention, "if you want it to be dry by morning."
I'm surprised when he doesn't come after me to reclaim his property. I suppose a part of me thought that bikers—because that is undoubtedly what this man is—were territorial. Don't they have turf wars with rival clubs, killing each other over this or that piece of road? I realize then that I know next to nothing about Flint, not even the fundamentals.
But what I told him back at the bar still stands. He does look familiar, even if I can't quite put my finger on where I've seen him before.
I stretch the jacket out by its shoulders and study the patch emblazoned on the back. I might have expected the flaming skull, but it's the crossbones that surprise me. They aren't bones at all, but crossed arrows. The letters 'R' and 'B' frame the grimacing skull on either side. I have no idea what this could mean. I glance back over my shoulder at Flint. He watches me examine his jacket, but if the question is obvious in my face, an answer isn't forthcoming.
I move off into the bathroom to hang his jacket over the lip of the sink. Then I turn to close the door behind me. I need a shower desperately, and not just to wash away the rainwater and residual dirt from our journey on the road. After hours with Flint effectively locked within my embrace, I need to impose some space between us to figure things out.
I whisk the shower curtain aside and wrench the tap on. I do all of this much more loudly than is strictly necessary, but I want my new roommate to know what my intentions are. There isn't a lock on the door, but I think I've made it perfectly clear that I am claiming this territory for my own, at least for now.
I begin to peel my clothes off, wincing as the fabric adheres itself to my flesh. Goosebumps spring out across my pale skin as I undress. I can't get into the shower fast enough. Once I free my ankle from the confines of my sopping-wet jeans, I all but spring into the bathtub and thrust the curtain closed behind me in a rattle of metal rings.