CHAPTER 3
The man’s big hands raise me off the bike’s seat, but he’s not the one who lifts me into his arms—a bigger man, chest as hard as stone, his arms like brick columns against my back. But his hands are gentle and warm as he strides with me through what must be the garage and into a darker passage, the light dimming through the blindfold.
I shift when he adjusts his stance and steps sideways, I assume to move through a doorway, but it’s enough for me to shoulder the blindfold up over my lower eyelid. A red beard near my cheek—the guy carrying me is a natural redhead. Even his arm hair is rust-colored where it sneaks through his tattoos, the bicep under my knees painted in greens and blacks—a parrot? The man who walks in front of us is equally muscular, with broad shoulders that loo
