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You're pressing your face into Jason's back so high-speed debris can't get in your eyes. That's what you told him. And it's true, but it's also an excuse. He's warm through his leather jacket.
There wasn't time to put on a helmet, and you know that as soon as the motorcycle comes to a stop Jason will nag until you relent and do so.
You hope the goons never stop chasing you.
The wind is alive and it wants to scrape the skin clear off your bones. You laugh and tighten your grip on Jason like you're daring it to.