There was a difference.
A sigh escaped her lips as the tension melted from her shoulders. For once, she wasn’t in crisis. She wasn’t cleaning up someone else’s mess or trying to prove her worth. She was just… here. In a quiet apartment. In a warm bath. Figuring it out.
She’d talk to Killer tomorrow. Ask about finding a car. Check one more thing off the list.
Little by little, she was building something for herself.
And that had to count for something.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Ridingon the back of Killer’s Harley was the closest Brandi had ever come to the dream she wouldn’t let herself speak out loud. The wind tangled through her hair, the Pacific glittered like broken glass beneath the cliffs, and the engine’s low growl vibrated up through her chest. It was wild and open and untouchable—everything she imagined it would feel like if it were Tool she was riding with.
But it wasn’t.
Killer was solid beneath her hands, his cut worn and sun-faded, his presence as familiar as blood. He didn’t say much—never did—but he always showed up. Brother, best friend, the one person who never judged her for what she wanted or how badly she wanted it. He knew the ride was for her, not him. That she needed the wind and the noise and the blur of motion to quiet the storm in her chest.
She leaned into the curve with him, eyes half-closed, letting herself pretend. Just for a moment. That it was Tool’s bike. Tool’s jacket beneath her fingers. Tool’s voice carried over the wind, teasing and rough, calling herdarlin’like it meant something.
But she’d never ridden with him. Not really. Just a hop down the road years past. Not even when she was his favorite mistake did he put her on his bike. He kept her at a distance—close enough to touch, never close enough to hold. And maybe that was why she’d built the fantasy up so high. Because it had never happened. Because it might never.
Still, when the road dipped and the sea opened up in full view, she let her eyes close and imagined what it would be like to wrap her arms aroundhim,to feel him turn his head just slightly, just enough to let her know he was glad she was there.
But when the wind burned too cold and the truth crept back in, she opened her eyes and saw Killer’s reflection in the side mirror—stoic, focused, unshakable.
Her brother. Not her dream. And it was enough. It had to be.
When the Harley rolled to a stop outside the ocean-side pub, Brandi waited until the engine cut off and the world went quiet, save for the cry of gulls overhead and the steady crash of waves below. The wind still clung to her skin, sharp with salt, her hair wild from the ride. Killer waited while she stepped off first and steadied herself on the pavement before climbing off.
The place was small, tucked against the bluff like it had been carved out of the cliff itself—weathered wood siding, a crooked sign that readThe Driftwood,and the smell of fried fish and beer seeping through the open windows. A couple of bikes were already parked out front. Locals. Travelers. The kind of people who didn’t ask questions.
They walked in together, Killer leading the way, and took a booth near the window where the glass was fogged with sea mist. The view was all ocean and jagged rock, seagulls perched like ghosts on the railings outside.
Brandi slid into the seat across from him, her body still humming from the ride, her hands clenched beneath the table.She didn’t talk. Not about Tool. Not about the ache that had lodged itself behind her ribs somewhere along the highway.
Killer just handed her a menu and leaned back in the booth, his eyes scanning the bar like he was watching for trouble—but really, she knew, he was just giving her room to breathe.
She picked something—fish and chips, whatever—and stared out the window while he flagged down the waitress. In her mind, she was still on the back of that bike. Still pretending. Still imagining what it would’ve felt like to be wrapped around the man she couldn’t have, to feel his warmth beneath her hands, to know—just once—what it was like to belong to him, even if only for a ride.
But this? This quiet booth, the salt on her lips, the loyalty sitting across from her? It was real. It was hers. And Killer’s friendship was more than enough.
The menus were closed and pushed to the edge of the table, their orders placed and drinks delivered—iced tea for her, black coffee for him. The silence wasn’t awkward. It never was with Killer. He was the kind of man who understood that not every moment needed to be filled.
Brandi leaned her elbow against the window frame, watching the ocean move in slow, powerful rhythm. She felt his eyes on her for a second before he spoke.
“We passed that ‘68 Mustang again. Same spot. Price is still too high for what it needs.”
Her mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile. “The fastback?”
He nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. “Paint’s clean, but it’s hiding a lot. Rust along the wheel wells. Frame might be bent.”
She exhaled through her nose, turning back toward him. “Itlookspretty.”
“Pretty doesn’t get you far when it breaks down two miles off the lot.”
Brandi rolled her eyes, but there was a flicker of something behind it. Something warm. “You sound like Tool when you say shit like that.”
Killer shrugged. “Maybe. He’s right sometimes.”
