Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 63608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
But I let him help. His hands bracket my waist lightly, just enough to guide me up without putting pressure on the bruises along my ribs.
The second his hands touch me, the world tilts.
Not in the concussion way. In the this feels natural, almost like home kind of way.
Which makes no sense.
When I’m settled, he closes the door gently, softer than someone his size should be capable of, then walks around the truck, Ally following.
“Where am I going?” I ask through the cracked window.
“Ally’s grabbing some stuff from your house,” he shares casually. “But you’re not staying there tonight.”
My pulse skips. “Where am I staying?”
“With me.”
The words hit me like a soft blow, shocking but not painful.
“With you?”
He nods once. “Safe. Quiet. Cameras all over.”
“And guns, I’m assuming?” I try to joke, though my voice betrays the nerves.
He looks at me like I asked if water was wet. “Yeah.”
I swallow.
He slides into the driver’s seat, body filling the space with heat and tension. His hands wrap around the wheel, big, rough, scarred. But when he glances at me, something softens in his eyes.
“You don’t have to be scared of me,” he explains quietly.
“I’m not,” I whisper, surprising myself.
He nods once like that matters more to him than he’ll ever admit. And then we’re off.
We pull out of the parking lot, Ally trailing behind us in her car. The scenery rolls by, streetlights fading into trees, the morning fog lifting slowly from the road. Riot drives with one hand, the other resting casually on his thigh.
I notice the way the tendons flex in his forearm. I notice the tattoo peeking beneath his sleeve, beautiful and intricate tribal style design. I notice the way his chest rises and falls in measured breaths, like he’s forcing himself to stay calm. My gaze drifts upward, following the line of his jaw.
He catches me looking.
For one heartbeat, neither of us moves.
Then his mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but something dangerously close.
“How’s the head?” he asks, voice low.
“Sore,” I admit. “Foggy.”
“Vision?”
“Blurrier when I move too fast.”
“Chest pain?”
“Manageable.”
“Dizzy?”
“Sometimes.”
He nods, taking that in, adjusting his speed slightly, slower, smoother.
“You check on me like this a lot before my accident?” I ask trying to figure out how we are connected.
He exhales through his nose, eyes fixed on the road. “There was a time.”
Something sparks in the back of my brain, a memory fragment or a phantom feeling. I’m not sure.
“What, what were we, Ledger or Riot?” I ask quietly. “Before today? I notice some people call you Riot and I’m not sure which I’m supposed to use.”
His grip on the wheel tightens. He takes a deep inhale really contemplating his answer. “Riot is my road name with the Kings of Anarchy. If I don’t agree with something, I don’t have a problem being the problem, causing a ruckus or a riot.”
Well, that gives me one explanation. “And us?” The two letter word comes off my tongue in both a bitter and sweet way that feels instinctual.
“We had an agreement,” he explains with a cautious tone. “No strings. Just enjoyed each other’s company.”
Heat blooms across my cheeks.
Oh.
A relationship without labels. Without promises. Without permanence.
It fits. Or it would fit if it didn’t make my stomach twist with disappointment.
“But it wasn’t enough,” he adds quietly.
“For who?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer. Which is anything but an answer. Did I want more? Did he? Is he disappointed that it couldn’t be? I have more questions now than before.
We turn off the highway onto a long gravel road lined with tall pines. The truck rumbles over the stones, vibrating through the seat and into my spine. Ahead, a cabin comes into view, wide porch, metal roof, tall windows, two motorcycles parked out front.
Ledger slows to a stop and kills the engine. For a second, he just sits there, hands on the wheel, jaw clenched.
“You okay?” I ask.
He nods once. “Just don’t know how this is gonna feel for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“This place was familiar to you before,” he almost whispers. “You were comfortable here. Not sure if it will be now.”
I don’t reply and he doesn’t elaborate. Will this place make the memories flood back?
He opens his door and comes around to mine. When he helps me down, his hands linger at my waist longer than strictly necessary.
A tremor shoots through me. He feels it. His eyes flash to mine.
Dangerous eye contact. Lingering touch. Electric air.
It feels like something I shouldn’t want, but do. And that is the hardest thing because I feel like I’m in a storm I don’t understand, but he’s this safe place to shelter. Except my mind won’t let me recall why he’s my comfort.
I want to remember.
I want to know how it changed between us.
Ally pulls in a moment later, rushing over with a bag of my things.