He groans. "Why do I even talk to you."
I laugh. "Alright, pretty boy. Stop talking. Let’s see if you survive the night."
He doesn’t say anything else, just finally climbs on the bike behind me. His hands hover at first, then land on my sides.
I smirk, kick up the stand, and rev the engine.
And that tension? Still fucking cooking.
22) That Turned Me On
Rava
We’re riding.
I don’t know if I should be scared out of my mind or trusting him. Both feel equally stupid. I tell myself I’m fine, that he knows what he’s doing, that this isn’t how I die.
I’m holding on to the tank in front of him like an idiot, one hand flat on the metal, the other barely hooked around his waist. My wrist feels like it’s literally going to snap, but whatever, better than grabbing him like he’s my safety net or something.
The bike tilts into another turn and my helmet knocks against his shoulder again.
Fuck you, Gio. He’s probably smiling. Maniac. I want to hold on tighter.
Well, I don’twantto, Ineedto. But no way in hell am I letting him feel me clinging to him like some terrified passenger. He’d never shut up about it.
So I keep it loose. My grip on him, my balance on the tank. I’d rather dislocate my arm than hug Gio Fontana right now.
He accelerates. Goddamn it. If we crash, fine. At least I won’t die giving him the satisfaction of knowing I needed him.
He pulls into a dark alley, cuts the engine, and kicks down the kickstand. He gets off first, stretches, cracks his neck, then turns to me and grins like we’re about to rob a bank.
"Off the bike, Canadian."
I slide off.
He pulls his helmet off, shakes out his hair, and walks toward a metal door on the side of a graffiti-covered building. No signs. No light.
Damn. This looks like the kind of place you see in movies where someone always ends up in a body bag.
"Promise me you won’t tell your father about this place."
"I promise.You are scaring me."
He knocks three times, pauses, then once. The door opens. We step into noise.
Underground. Literally.
A long hallway, stairs, and then boom, open space. A room full of smoke, so much smoke I’m coughing already. I don’t know where to look or if I evenshould.
Every face that turns toward me feels like it knows I don’t belong. There are couches that should’ve been thrown away years ago, crates, broken lights, and poker tables. People are already sitting with cards in their hands, chips clacking together.
Guys in ripped shirts, a few faces I’m pretty sure I’ve seen on the news once. Gio doesn’t slow down. People nod at him as he passes, fist bumps, side smiles.
I follow. They look at me too, but not the same way. It’s like they’re testing me, like they can’t tell if I’m a threat or a mascot Gio brought for fun.
I keep walking, because what the hell can I do.
Nod?
