I don’t know why I do it.Is it the helmet? The quiet confidence? The fact that he hasn’t said a word?I don’t know, but I take one step forward.
I’m close enough to see my own distorted reflection in the black visor. The rider turns, and I follow.
Lou calls after me, “If you die, I’m stealing your boots!”
Shaved-head guy laughs. “She’s in good hands.”
The rider in front of me leads me to the motorcycle and stops.
“Are you going to say something?” I ask, my voice thinner than I’d like.
A beat of silence that stretches into eternity. He reaches up slowly, unstraps the helmet, and lifts it off.
The air leaves my lungs. His eyes lock on mine.
“Get on the bike, Sisk.”
Fifty-Nine
NOW | JAX
She walks around the bar like there’s nothing to be explained, not even flinching at my tone as she slides behind it and reaches for a bottle like this is just another night.
She settles onto the counter, one leg crossing slowly over the other with a glass of whiskey acting as though her day was a million times rougher than mine. She sips casually, and I can't stop thinking about the last hour I spent imagining pulling her body out of a fucking alley.
She glances up over the rim of the glass. “Don’t,” she warns.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m your responsibility,” she says calmly. “Or worse—like I’m one of those girls you think you can manage.”
I stare at her.
“Excuse me?”
Her mouth tilts faintly. “You think I haven’t noticed? Since the day we met, women throw themselves at you and you pretend you don’t see it. Vipers.”
A harsh, humorless laugh almost escapes me. “You have got to be fucking kidding me. We are not doing this tonight.”
Her brow lifts slightly. “That tone,” she says. “Lose it.”
My jaw tightens. I breathe in slowly because she has no idea of what I almost did today. No idea how close I am to coming apart standing four feet from her.
She swings her foot lightly against the cabinet like none of this matters. “So,” she says, casual again. “Did you do it?”
I start stacking chairs. “Yeah.” The word comes out rough.
Her expression shifts to concern. “Did it hurt?”
“No.” I toss the rag aside. “Healed already.”
Her eyes narrow—understanding exactly what that means.
“I could barely think today,” she says quieter now. “I just kept dancing. Didn’t want to think about it. Are you sad? Because it’s okay to be sad.” She looks down at her glass. “I think I am.”
“I’m fine.”
She pours herself another inch of whiskey.
