I stared at him, open-mouthed. My cheeks stung with the influx of heat.

He really needed to wash his mouth with soap.

Repeatedly.

"No thanks," I said eventually, "I'll pass."

I pushed my arms through his jacket, the heavy leather hanging on my smaller frame.

"Fine by me," he said, eyes roaming his jacket on my body, "you're the one missing out."

I clenched my jaw. "Can you stop talking about your stupid-ass weiner already? Geez."

Mason snapped his head up to me, and my eyes widened at my own words.

"Weiner?" he repeated, amused. "What are you, seventy? It's called a dick, blondie. Verga. Huevos."

I growled under my breath, the blood not leaving my cheeks. "Let's go. Now."

He shut his mouth, finally, but couldn't get the amusement out of his eyes.

"Okay," he said, tapping the seat of the bike, "get on."

I stared at him as he held his bike upright for me to mount.

"Get on, blondie," he repeated, "I'd love to stand here all day while you stare at me, but unfortunately the world doesn't really give me the things I want."

The bike was huge, and I was so very, very small in comparison to it. It was too tall for me, and he knew that.

"Help me up, idiot!" I snapped.

Mason gaped at the monster he'd brought out. I was done with his shit. Done.

"Ask nicely," he said.

I narrowed my eyes. Nicely? Nicely? Was that even a word in his messed up dictionary?

"Help me up, idiot," I repeated, my voice high-pitched and sickeningly sweet this time.

I shot him a fake smile at the end.

Mason chuckled lowly. "Retract the claws, blondie. We still have a whole day ahead of us."

I inwardly groaned. What had I gotten myself into?

Before I could register anything, his hands were at the sides of my waist, and he was picking me up. My shirt hitched up and his warm skin made contact with my own, sending a shiver down my spine.

He set me down on the seat with ease, winking subtly, just enough for me to notice.

The breeze swept through his hair, ruffling it further. I found myself wondering what it would feel like to run my hands through it...

I snapped myself out of the thought hard and fast.

It was not the time, ovaries.

He passed me a red helmet from a storage box that looked too neat to be true.

"Here," he said, "it's my old one. From high school."

I took it. "Should I be worried?"

Again, that amused glint in his eyes. "No. I'd like to believe I keep my things in good condition."

I was beginning to get the inkling that Mason Valdez was a fully-fledged Neat Freak.

The thought made me smile.

I placed it on my head, clipping it on. He took out a slightly larger black helmet, so shiny I could see my reflection in it, and clipped it on.

Then he climbed on in front of me with ease, placing his hands on the sidebars.

I cut to the chase and wrapped my arms around his lower back. I had been on plenty of bike escapades with my brother. I knew the drill. There was no point in delaying it, and the sooner this was over, the better. 

I could already see that smug look on his face when he switched on the engine, and revved. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

The bike flew into motion, the inertia sending me back. I clasped tighter, feeling the hard ridges of his stomach under his shirt. He tensed under my touch, relaxing quickly.

It was meant to be platonic, like holding a metal rail in the middle of a train.

But I couldn't have been more wrong. 

I couldn't describe the feeling that spiralled inside me. But it was definitely not platonic.

It was a good thing he couldn't see me, because I could feel my cheeks burning up.

His scent of cinnamon and pine mixed with the early morning air, and I leaned my cheek into his back. The wind raged on both sides of us, a sort of parallel storm.

I didn't admit it out loud, but I liked it. I savored the feeling of heat emanating from his back, savored the feeling of his shirt at my fingertips.

I savored the feeling of not being alone.

We came to a gradual halt as we neared the garage. I unclipped my helmet, leaving it on the seat as I jumped off the bike, thankfully without sustaining any injuries.

Mason followed, his tall frame towering over me as he unmounted the bike. It was unhinging, our height difference, and it hit me like a freight train.

"You coming?" he quipped.

I nodded briskly, following him into Charley's.

Not much had changed from the last time I'd been at the garage. Mason hadn't lied about not many people being around.

Logan walked in, catching my gaze.

"Hey, Ever!" he yelled from the other side of the room.

I smiled a little as he walked over. He was wearing a bright red bandana, his black bangs pushed back to exposed his bronzed forehead. It was undeniably attractive.

"Funny seeing you here on a Sunday, corazón," Logan said.

He shot a daring smile in Mason's direction.

"I'm here with Mason for self defence lessons," I replied.

Logan raised an eyebrow at his friend.

Mason just shrugged. "She asked."

Logan narrowed his eyes at the upper half of my body. "Is that Mason's motorcycle jacket?"

I looked down, realizing that I still had it on. I immediately shrugged it off. "Uh, I think so."

Again, he sent a questioning glance to Mason, who replied with an imperceptible shrug of the shoulders.

"You don't let anyone borrow that, man. Not even me," Logan complained.

Really?

"Logan," Mason warned. His voice was simmering, like hot oil.

Logan completely dismissed it, like it was a common occurrence.

"Well, I'm out!" Logan exclaimed, then cast a warning gaze toward his friend. "Don't do anything stupid, Mason."

Mason glowered at Logan's receding back.

I noticed my car, parked at the far left corner, the "crater" as Mason so kindly referred to it gone.

They'd done a good job with it. Mason caught my line of gaze.

"You can drive it back today," he said, "since you didn't come earlier."

"Are you sure I don't owe you anything?" I said, not comfortable with the whole arrangement. I had been brought up to settle my debts.

He shook his head. "Nothing but your company, of course," he said, then, "which is always a pleasure."

He couldn't be serious.

I ran a hand through my damp hair, the ends dry due to the wind blowing through it on the motorcycle. His eyes followed.

"When do we start?" I asked.

Mason lifted his eyes to me. "Now."

I swallowed. "Okay."

"Let's start from the beginning," he said, walking up closer to me, "what do you know about self defence?"

I contorted my features. "Very little, considering I'm asking you for help."

He dismissed my answer. "Any words that come to mind?"

I furrowed my brows. "Uh...Punch. Kick. Kill?"

Mason lips quirked into a half smile. "Kill?" he repeated. "Slow down there, soldier. We just want to cause enough damage to get the perpetrator to back the fuck up long enough for you to get help."

I averted my eyes from his gaze with an embarrassed smile, nodding.

"In situations when you're being attacked, your body is going to fill up with adrenaline," he explained, "and you are very, very likely to forget each and every word I've said to you."

I frowned. "So?"

"So it's fine if you don't remember shit from whatever I tell you today," he said.

I lifted an intrigued brow.

"Except for this," he continued, "this you are going to have to memorise. And it's going to stick inside your pretty little skull so if the time comes, you focus all your strength and adrenaline on these points first."

Mason took my hand in his. His scarred one against my bruised knuckles, the skin a faint blue-purple. He clenched his jaw at the sight.

I felt that now familiar roughness, that simmering heat of his scarred skin. He gently curled my fingers into a fist, everything except for my index finger.

I stared into those gold-flecked eyes of his, the air between us turning warm enough to fog up a mirror.

"One," he said, his voice low, as he guided my hand just below my eye.

"Eyes." He paused, his dark eyes alive. "They can't hurt you if they can't see. You aim for their eyes and gouge."

I swallowed. He was wicked. And brutal. And brilliant.

And far too close to me to allow me to  breathe normally.

"Two," he continued, guiding my hand to my ears, and my skin rippled into goosebumps as he edged closer to me.

"Ears. Thousands of nerve endings —one pull and you can cause enough pain to get away."

"Three," he said, and he brought my hand down to my stomach. "Solar plexus. A big bundle of nerves behind the stomach. A punch or kick here will knock out their breath. Not for too long, though."

"Four."

He held up my hand as he flicked through my fingers like chimes. A shiver ran down my spine at the unexpected touch.

"Fingers," he said. "You just need to grab one or two and bend them back as much as you can. As much as you'd like," he finished.

"And last, but not least... "

He brought my hand to hover just below my waistline.

His grin was predatory. Feline. Carnal.

Heat licked up my spine as his warm breath caressed my cheek. Everything seemed to come to a standstill, skin throbbing.

Yes, my body seemed to hiss...but my mind screeched no.

I almost jumped away as I realized the only thing separating his hand from...below, was my own freaking hand.

"Genitals," he whispered. "Hit a male here with a generous amount of force and you've bought yourself a good twenty minutes. At least. This isn't half as true for females."

I swallowed. This was not what I had had in mind when I thought of self defence lessons. But I had to admit,  to myself at least, that Mason knew his stuff.

He let go of my hand.

The warmth dissipated like melting ice.

"W-was that really necessary?" I stuttered, rubbing away his touch.

He nodded. "Extremely. Now I know you'll never forget."

"I don't forget anything," I said. "Anything."

Mason's eyes sparked. A silent pause. He leaned down a little, eyes never leaving mine. "You sure about that?"

"Of course," I muttered. "I'm tired." Although it was more of an excuse to take a break from our close proximity.

"We haven't even started yet."

I cast a questioning glare his way. "What do you mean?"

He offered me an unimpressed glower. "In any situation when you feel threatened, your body switches into a fight or flight mode."

"So?"

"So, your first instinct is going to be run."

I took no offence to the statement, because it was entirely true. Running or escaping the situation would be precisely what I would do.

"So you're saying I need to suppress that instinct?" I asked, confused.

Mason shook his head.

"I'm saying you need to hone in on that instinct. If you have the chance, find the nearest exit and run like your life depends on it, because it probably does. You're not trained in combat and you'll have a decreased chance of..." he paused, "getting out unharmed."

"Great," I said, cracking my knuckles. "Lesson over?"

Mason scoffed.

"Run twenty laps around the garage to warm up," he said.

My jaw dropped. "Twenty what?"

"Did I stutter?"

His eyes held a dangerous glint—daring almost.

Daring me to say "no." To be predictable.

I clenched my jaw.

Was this just another way of trying to push me away?

Well, it wasn't going to work. If that was what he wanted, I was not going to give him the satisfaction of having it.

We stared each other down for a long time before I looked away.

"Fine," I said, my voice sickeningly sweet. Like honey.

His eyes widened fractionally in surprise.

I flicked at the hair band at my wrist in frustration, tying my hair up into a ponytail.

I hadn't run in ages and was about as fit as a blubbery seal.

Nevertheless, I narrowed my eyes at him, taking off. The path around the edge of the garage had been cleared, so there was no way I could trip and die. Unless I tripped on myself, of course.

I took a deep, exaggerated inhale of breath before I started my leisurely jog around the perimeter. Running around a square building was harder than a more rounded space.

I was actually doing fine.

Halfway through my first lap, Mason yelled, "Faster, blondie! You gonna run like a fucking pansy when someone's chasing your ass?"

I knew it was too good to be true.

I growled under my breath, picking up my speed. Mason simply leaned back on the hood of my car, watching me run with an insane amount of smugness.

Ugh.

To think I asked for this.

My sides were burning and my breaths were becoming increasingly shallow.

By the time lap number 10 came around, I was around 89.99% dead. It was just buffering a little, like McDonald's WiFi.

Mason watched my heaving and slow, painful deterioration with not a single ounce of sympathy.

Seriously, what was the guy made of, freaking titanium?

I swear if he had popcorn he would have sat back and munched on it while I provided him free entertainment with my bodily spasms.

I didn't even want to think about how I looked running.

The image of a waddling duck came to mind.

This very image helped me survive my eleventh lap.

Eight laps later, I wasn't even sure what I was feeling. My feet weren't even aching anymore, they were just plain numb. A ravenous feeling had erupted in my stomach.

I was starving, and a huge stitch was forming on the left side of my belly.

Just one more lap, I reminded myself, just one more.

I wasn't going to give up.

Pushing myself to go further, I finally finished the twentieth lap.

My entire body was drenched in sweat. I pulled my shirt over my head without a second thought, the heat becoming unbearable.

Mason widened his eyes at the sight of me standing in front of him with only my sports bra on.

I didn't care.

A hell of a fever was ravaging at my forehead, and my stomach felt like a million splinters were attacking it at once.

He shifted his gaze back to my face.

"Nicely done, blondie," he said, after a while.

"Yeah..." I murmured, barely audible. "It...wasn't...even...that ba —"

And then I fell to my knees and puked out my insides at his feet.

*

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