I speed up.
I need my thoughts to go blank again.
I need them to make sense again.
Because nothing makes sense now.
1. How chaotic.
2. In this context "fuck"
FOUR
CARMEN
Iused to believe that bikers are just fuckboys on wheels. I still think that. But riding with him, holding onto him, it feels like holding onto life itself while it beats. My heart is racing, my eyes are closed, and my thoughts run faster than his bike. It feels like we are on the edge, like we could jump at any moment into something we don’t know we would survive. My palms press against his chest, and I feel his heartbeat; it’s beating faster than mine.
I used to think they ride because they are empty inside. Now I think they ride because they have too much built up inside, and they use the road and speed to hide it. We just choose different ways to mask it.
When I open my eyes, he slows down, and we stop in front of a beach house. I still hold onto him. He taps twice on my hands, and I gently let go. He steps off the bike and plants his feet on the ground, fixing his jeans as I climb down after him. I can still feel vibrations through my body, lingering like an aftershock.
He nods toward me as he takes off his helmet. I remove mine too, meeting his two imperfectly perfect eyes.
“I wish I could ride,” I say.
He chuckles, stepping closer and touching the throttle. Then he pulls his phone from his pocket and types, turning the screen toward me.
I look down.
Be a good girl, and I might teach you how to ride.
Did he really type that?And did I really bite my lip after I read it?
I exhale, locking eyes with him as he pulls off his balaclava.
“If you teach me how to ride, I will teach you how to speak,” I say.
He laughs, then looks down at his phone and types again, angling it toward me.
It’s easier to ride than speak.
“Maybe you just need someone who can teach you how,” I say, blinking at him.
He shakes his head, eyes sliding away as a smirk ghosts across his mouth. Just before he turns around, he shrugs, tucking his helmet under his arm.
“Judas,” I call out. He stops and looks back. “Do we even know the people inside?”
He raises his hands in a loose shake, smiling. This time, he moves closer. His fingers gently clasp mine. My chest tightens, then eases.
For him, he just wants to pull me inside. For me, his touch, his hand holding mine, feels like I finally have someone who can pull me back to life.
I glance down at my hand.
My hair tie is gone.
My breath catches, panic rushing up my spine. It’s a stupidlittlething. Just a strip of rubber. But thatlittle thingkeeps me grounded. It keeps me together.
Life gives me another chance, and slowly, as I start accepting it, I feel like I am losing the pieces that have kept me who I am so far.
