Page 32 of Renegade
Chapter Nine
Gemma
“Come here.”
I step closer to Walker, and he pulls the helmet he got for me snugly onto my head. I stand still as he fastens the strap under my chin and tightens it. “Is that comfortable? Not too loose or too tight?” He looks to me for confirmation, and I nod mutely, my pulse still thrumming from the proximity to his warm, lean body. How on earth am I going to spend the next five hours with my body plastered to his when just the innocent brush of his fingers as he fastened the helmet sent my stomach plummeting to my toes?
Last night changed everything. No one has ever come close to making me feel the things Walker did. And I’m not just talking about the orgasms, although those were mind-blowing. Somehow, Walker pushed my limits and made me feel incredibly vulnerable but still somehow safe. He took complete charge, yet let me set the pace. And now I am so screwed. Because what was just a drunken bet between friends has made me feel things I have no right to feel.
Obviously, Walker doesn’t feel the same. He was amazingly sweet about making sure I had not one but two orgasms, and although I never sensed he wasn’t into it (in fact, his cock made it apparent he was), he obviously didn’t want more. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have stopped me last night when I had his cock in my mouth, or he would have taken me up on my offer to pleasure him this morning instead of getting dressed. But it was the way he reacted to me going with him to the sex club that was the true indicator. It was obvious he didn’t want me to go. Sure, I ultimately convinced him, but it doesn’t feel like a win.
I just need to remember why I’m here—to help Walker find the guns, keep McKenzie safe, and clear Liam’s name. And of course, I intend to make the most of what Walker can teach me and what I can learn at the club that might help me with Declan. Going to the club on Liam’s list will be invaluable in that regard.
Declan. I try to conjure up an image of him in my head, but instead of his piercing gray eyes, all I can see are Walker’s warm brown ones, and the way they crinkle at the corners when he smiles at me.
“You ready?” Walker revs the engine, and I realize he’s already on the Harley, waiting for me. He looks like he could have just walked off a movie set. He’s wearing a T-shirt that molds slightly to his sculpted chest, and the smooth brown skin of his forearms gives a tantalizing hint of the taut muscles underneath. He’s got a helmet on, too, but it’s not a full-face one like I have, and with his mirrored sunglasses and scruff of a beard, he looks like an advertisement for everything manly—independent, self-reliant, and fearless. He’s the quintessential bad boy. He nods toward me. “Hop on.”
I swing my leg over the seat. He revs the engine again, and a little thrill of anticipation dances up my spine. I’d forgotten how much fun it is to be on the back of a bike, and I suddenly can’t wait. I wrap my arms around his waist. He feels warm and solid. “Let’s go.”
He maneuvers the bike slowly through traffic until we reach the Pacific Coast Highway, and then he opens it up. The bike roars to life, and I tighten my grip on him so I don’t fall off.
Five minutes in and I’m grinning like an idiot. Nothing beats riding on the back of a Harley with the throaty rumble of the engine in your ears and the wind in your hair. This is what freedom feels like, and it’s exhilarating. Walker always calls it wind therapy, and I see what he means. This is way better than the short rides home from high school.
There’s also something oddly thrilling about having to put my trust wholly and completely in Walker’s capable hands for a while, and the knowledge that even though we’re twisting through curves and going thrillingly fast with nothing between us and the pavement, he’s got it all under control. There’s no one I ever feel safer with.
Of course, it’s also heady being this close to him. His abs are hard beneath my hands as I grip his waist, and at first, I hold on tightly, my chest pressing into his hard, unyielding back. After a while, I get more comfortable and reluctantly loosen my grip on him so I can see the scenery around us.
Northern California is stunning. The views are exquisite, and my fingers itch for my camera. After about forty-five minutes, Walker pulls over at the beach in Half Moon Bay and I finally get the chance to get my camera out of the saddlebag, snapping dozens of pictures of the rocky cliffs, beach, and waves crashing on the shore before we take off again. Another hour and we’re in Santa Cruz, where we spend some time walking along the beach, taking pictures of the lighthouse, and strolling along the boardwalk, which is like stepping back in time to the sixties. Walker impulsively buys us tickets to ride the Giant Dipper roller coaster, and I hold onto him and we scream and laugh like kids. Afterward, we grab lunch at the Santa Cruz Diner, which is the real deal, and super cute with road signs and posters on the wall, red vinyl booths, and a jukebox. We devour cheeseburgers and greasy fries and argue over whether the East Coast or the West Coast is better.
After lunch, we’re back on the bike and headed south to Big Sur, which Walker says is about seventy miles from Santa Cruz. Any remaining awkwardness from last night dissipates as we ride, the wind and the road carrying it all away. It’s hard to talk much, but I’m content to wrap my arms around Walker and soak in the scenery. Occasionally, he absentmindedly runs his hand up my leg as we drive, and each time, his touch sends little frissons of pleasure dancing through me.
We’ve been on the road for about an hour, each curve revealing a more beautiful view than the last, when we slow down, riding through the most adorable town I’ve ever seen. It looks like what I would imagine a European village to look like, with cute little cottages and shops and an amazing view of the Pacific with white sandy beaches.
“Are we going to stop here?” I lean forward to ask Walker.
He turns slightly and grins. “You like it?”
I nod.
“This is Carmel. I knew you’d love it. Like I expected, it’s going to be too late to make it back to San Francisco tonight, so we’ll stop here on our way back and spend the night. That way we can take our time today and tomorrow and explore more.”
“You’re paying for two hotel rooms tonight?”
He looks at me a little sheepishly. “Yeah. But I only get to show you the Pacific Coast for the first time once.”
I smile at him, touched that he cares so much.
“We’ll hit 17-Mile Drive before we head down to Big Sur,” he says. “Tell me when you want to stop and take pictures.”
I’m sure he regrets telling me that, because I ask him to stop at least a half a dozen times. The road hugs the coastline as it goes around the peninsula, and there are so many great picture opportunities—miles of beautiful shoreline, a sandy white beach where I get some amazing shots of a mother harbor seal and her pup, the Pebble Beach golf course, ridiculously expensive homes, and my favorite shot of the day so far, the lone cypress tree that’s perched on the top of a rocky cliff. But Walker doesn’t complain. He seems happy to hang out and watch while I take pictures, although after a while, he starts asking questions about how I frame shots and how to use the aperture and shutter speeds to get various effects. At one point, he takes my camera and starts taking pictures of me until I chase him down and wrestle the camera out of his hands. I don’t like being on the other side of the lens.
As we hit the end of the scenic drive, we get back on Highway 1 toward Big Sur. This is my favorite stretch of the highway so far. Magnificent rocky cliffs plunge into the Pacific, towering redwoods reach for the sky, and frothy waves dance against the craggy rocks. I’ve never been much of a landscape photographer, but I realize maybe I just never had the right inspiration. Here there are no traffic lights or shopping centers or stores—just the world as God made it, so beautiful it makes my heart ache. It’s a photographer’s dream. From an overlook, we see a waterfall in a hidden cove that could have been stolen from a movie scene, and the late-afternoon sun as it collides with the fog is mesmerizing.
Walker turns onto a small road that I hadn’t even noticed and parks the bike, helping me take my helmet off. We walk through dense trees and emerge on one of the most beautiful beaches I’ve ever seen.
“Wow!” I breathe. “What is this?”
“Pfeiffer Beach.” Walker is beaming, as if he’d made it himself, and I feel a rush of affection for him. I hadn’t realized how much I’ve missed him until I’ve had the chance to spend this much uninterrupted time with him.
