"What the actual fuck do you think you're doing?" he'd growled.
Penn just laughed, completely unfazed. "Taking my sister-in-law for a spin. Problem?"
"Yeah, there's a fucking problem," Ramsey snapped, swinging his leg off his bike and stalking toward me. "If you want to ride a bike, I'll be the one doing it. Fucking psycho funhouse over there likes playing with semis, and you won't be doing that."
Penn had just snickered, clearly amused at how easily he'd manipulated the situation. "Told you he wouldn't be amused," he said to me, winking. "Mini-me is so predictable."
I'd just shaken my head, used to Penn's shit-stirring by then. "You're such an ass," I told him.
"And you," Ramsey had said, turning to me, "are never getting on the back of his bike. Ever."
That was the first time I rode with Ramsey, and I've been addicted to the feeling ever since.
Now, as we tear down the back roads outside of campus, Ramsey veers off the main highway onto a narrow road I don't recognize. The pavement stretches ahead of us, empty and inviting, cutting through dense woods with no streetlights or houses in sight.
He slows just enough to glance back at me. I nod, giving him three more taps because I trust him with my life. Permission granted.
The bike rockets forward so fast I have to clamp my thighs tighter around the seat. My arms crush against his waist, fingers digging into the hard planes ofhis stomach. The speedometer climbs—80, 90, 100—until the trees on either side blur into streaks of darkness.
Holy fuck, this is better than sex. Well, I assume it is; I wouldn’t know because I’ve never had it. Not because I don’t want to or I’m waiting. Just when most men touch me I get the ick. My boyfriend, Justin, doesn’t even mind because he’s on some purity hockey superstition thing that I couldn’t even begin to tell you about because I don’t understand it at all, but it works in my favor.
I watch Ramsey’s hands on the handlebars, veins corded and popping, and I want to know what it feels like to grip the throttle myself. To have all that power between my own legs, not just as a passenger. I’m not sure he’d even let me. Or Penn, or any of the Blackwoods. I didn’t know having a brother-in-law came with a package deal of three extra brothers and a fucking stalker for a best friend, but here we are.
I used to think the whole “overprotective brother” trope was a joke. That the stories of guys threatening to beat the shit out of a boyfriend were just some posturing, a way to keep high school drama alive through college and beyond. But the Blackwoods don’t threaten; they just do. It’s not even personal half the time. It’s policy. The Blackwood girls are off-limits unless you want to end up on a milk carton. It doesn’t even matter that my name isn’t Blackwood; I’m actually the only one of the girls that isn’t one.
Ramsey is both the best and the worst of them. He’s never so much as threatened Justin verbally as far as I know, but I’ve seen the way he looks at him. Like a wolf not evenbothering to show its teeth because it knows the lamb is already dead.
The road curves hard, the world tilting, and I gasp. My arms go tight around Ramsey’s stomach, and he barks out a laugh that I feel all the way down my spine.
"Scared?" he calls back.
"Not even a little," I shout, but I know he hears the tremor. He always does.
He takes the next turn even faster, like he’s testing me, daring me to scream. I refuse, burying my face between his shoulders and breathing him in until the world slows again.
The sun is gone, horizon smudged with the last of the pink and gold.
He pulls off suddenly into a gravel lot, and I realize we’re somewhere I’ve never been before. It’s a tiny taco stand, tucked next to a chain-link fence and a neon sign that says Tacos El Lobo, and the smell of meat on a grill hits me so hard I almost moan.
Ramsey flips his visor up and twists to look at me. Even through the helmet, I can see the smirk on his lips. “Told you I had a plan,” he says, and then he pulls off the helmet in one smooth move, shaking out his wavy hair. It looks so fucking good right now—clean fade, the kind of line-up that only happens right after the barber, and a few strands falling over his forehead.
I pull my own helmet off, and the world sounds different all of a sudden, like going from underwater to breathing air.
“How did you know—” I start, but he interrupts.
“That you’d want tacos after dance? Because you’realways starving after you work out, and your blood sugar is lower than your tolerance for that boyfriend of yours.”
I snort. “You don’t know everything, you freaking phantom.” My hand whips out to smack his shoulder, but he catches it easily, holding my wrist just tight enough that I could break free if I really wanted, but not so tight that I actually try.
“I bet it’s everything,” he says, and then, softer, “Come on. You wait much longer, you’ll pass out on me before I get food in you.”
I try to act indignant, but hunger is already clawing through my stomach lining. “You’re so dramatic. I had a granola bar at, like, four.”
He scoffs. “Yeah, and you burned through that in the first three miles of ride.” Before I can object, he’s unpeeling my arms from his waist and swinging off the bike.
I exaggerate my limp when I climb off the bike, dramatic as fuck, just to see if I can get a reaction. Ramsey is already off and standing at my side, hands on my hips like he’s worried I’ll tip over. He always does this—treats me like I’m breakable, even though I’ve literally danced on a broken ankle before.
He peels my helmet off for me, fingers slipping under my chin and jaw. The way his hands linger does something weird to my insides. He’s my best friend and we’re bestie soulmates and that’s why he’s so protective of me. But sometimes the way he looks at me, I’m not so sure it begins and ends there.
