shifting both bags to his left hand. He places his right hand on my lower back, guiding me toward the surrounding cabins. From behind me, I hear Ruby shout, “Remember what I said!”
Those men are off limits to you .
I tell myself I’ ll respect her wishes, even if the thought of being alone in a cabin with Ryan gives me other ideas.
Chapter 10
Love begins with an image; lust with a sensation.
- Mason Cooley
RYAN LEADS US to one of the most isolated cabins. It’s set back a few hundred feet from the rest. There is no porch light to guide our path and no walkway for us to follow. But he seems to know the way. I think back on what Ruby said, that Rage is Ryan’s grandfather. I imagine that Ryan’s familiarity with the land has something to do with that connection.
On the rickety front porch of the cabin, I’m suddenly nervous at the prospect of being alone with him. Even though I want this time with him more than anything right now, my stomach is alight with an intense fluttering of nerves. Ryan is all man. He’s tall, and muscled, and tan. He wears his black jeans (the same he wore the day I met him), black leather, and his tattoos with an arrogance that is as much a part of him as his bike is. I’ve spent more than my fair share of time around arrogant men—men who think the world owes them something, and they owe the rest of us nothing—but not a single one of them has anything on Ryan. Aunt Gloria says I’m a good judge of character. If I were to judge Ryan, I’d say that all he’s really missing in his life is a good woman on the back of his bike.
But I’m also nineteen and hopeful as all hell.
“You comin’ in?” he asks, breaking me from my thoughts. He’s already inside with the light on. I let out a shallow breath and cross the threshold, shutting the door behind me. Inside, the room is barely furnished, but Ryan’s presence is so overwhelming it fills up the space. There’s no cheesy artwork on the walls, no phone from what I can see, and certainly no Bible in the bedside table. There is, however, a twin bed and a recliner. Like the rest of the cabin, they’ve seen better days. The walls are covered in signatures and phrases that would send my mother running to church.
“ You take the bed,” he says, plopping into the recliner, letting the bags drop at his feet. Now that he’s sitting, he leans his head back, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes. The long ride must have worn him out. Even though he’s used to riding, I can’t imagine going for so long doesn’t take its toll.
“I’m going to take a shower.” I lean down beside him, letting my arm brush against the side of his leg, and retrieve my small bag. When I go to stand up, his eyes are open , fixated on my every move. Whatever confidence I had about being in such close quarters with Ryan have disappeared. The butterflies are back. I’m so out of my element here, it’s not even funny.
I shuffle backward and dart into the open bathroom. It’s empty, not even a bar of soap or a towel. Thankfully, I have the soaps and washcloths I shoved in my bag. I turn on the water and fiddle with the knobs until I figure which is hot and which is cold. Even after figuring it out, the water is room temperature at best. The soap is harsh on my dry skin, but it's all I have. It's funny how we take the little things in life for granted. Growing up, I never wanted for anything material. Not really, anyway. My father was the reigning boss before I was born, and his position afforded us a very comfortable lifestyle. Whenever we traveled, we never used the hotel soap. When I was a child, my mother would say it wasn't good for my skin and so she would always pack my soap from home. After she died, it just stuck with me, I guess.
Dragging the white bar across my body, I feel anything but clean. A film forms on my skin that is uncomfortable and binding . My hair is stringy and feels like straw. It seems so stupid and materialistic
Those men are off limits to you .
I tell myself I’ ll respect her wishes, even if the thought of being alone in a cabin with Ryan gives me other ideas.
Chapter 10
Love begins with an image; lust with a sensation.
- Mason Cooley
RYAN LEADS US to one of the most isolated cabins. It’s set back a few hundred feet from the rest. There is no porch light to guide our path and no walkway for us to follow. But he seems to know the way. I think back on what Ruby said, that Rage is Ryan’s grandfather. I imagine that Ryan’s familiarity with the land has something to do with that connection.
On the rickety front porch of the cabin, I’m suddenly nervous at the prospect of being alone with him. Even though I want this time with him more than anything right now, my stomach is alight with an intense fluttering of nerves. Ryan is all man. He’s tall, and muscled, and tan. He wears his black jeans (the same he wore the day I met him), black leather, and his tattoos with an arrogance that is as much a part of him as his bike is. I’ve spent more than my fair share of time around arrogant men—men who think the world owes them something, and they owe the rest of us nothing—but not a single one of them has anything on Ryan. Aunt Gloria says I’m a good judge of character. If I were to judge Ryan, I’d say that all he’s really missing in his life is a good woman on the back of his bike.
But I’m also nineteen and hopeful as all hell.
“You comin’ in?” he asks, breaking me from my thoughts. He’s already inside with the light on. I let out a shallow breath and cross the threshold, shutting the door behind me. Inside, the room is barely furnished, but Ryan’s presence is so overwhelming it fills up the space. There’s no cheesy artwork on the walls, no phone from what I can see, and certainly no Bible in the bedside table. There is, however, a twin bed and a recliner. Like the rest of the cabin, they’ve seen better days. The walls are covered in signatures and phrases that would send my mother running to church.
“ You take the bed,” he says, plopping into the recliner, letting the bags drop at his feet. Now that he’s sitting, he leans his head back, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes. The long ride must have worn him out. Even though he’s used to riding, I can’t imagine going for so long doesn’t take its toll.
“I’m going to take a shower.” I lean down beside him, letting my arm brush against the side of his leg, and retrieve my small bag. When I go to stand up, his eyes are open , fixated on my every move. Whatever confidence I had about being in such close quarters with Ryan have disappeared. The butterflies are back. I’m so out of my element here, it’s not even funny.
I shuffle backward and dart into the open bathroom. It’s empty, not even a bar of soap or a towel. Thankfully, I have the soaps and washcloths I shoved in my bag. I turn on the water and fiddle with the knobs until I figure which is hot and which is cold. Even after figuring it out, the water is room temperature at best. The soap is harsh on my dry skin, but it's all I have. It's funny how we take the little things in life for granted. Growing up, I never wanted for anything material. Not really, anyway. My father was the reigning boss before I was born, and his position afforded us a very comfortable lifestyle. Whenever we traveled, we never used the hotel soap. When I was a child, my mother would say it wasn't good for my skin and so she would always pack my soap from home. After she died, it just stuck with me, I guess.
Dragging the white bar across my body, I feel anything but clean. A film forms on my skin that is uncomfortable and binding . My hair is stringy and feels like straw. It seems so stupid and materialistic
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