Then there’s Cyrus.
Always fuckingCyrus.
A light flashes in my rearview mirror and I squint, then my shoulders tense. Despite the darkness, I can make out the man on the bike who’s flashing his lights at me.
I’d recognize him anywhere, especially now that he’s half naked, his helmet on, and speeding to catch up to me.
Yulian.
So hedidrecognize me.
Fuck.
I hit the gas, speeding down the empty coastal road. The sea breeze rushes through the half-open window, filling my nostrils with the smell of salt.
The moment I think I’ve shaken him off, his headlights flare in my mirrors. He surges forward, and within seconds, he’s beside me, mirroring my every move.
Keeping one hand on the handlebar, he waves at me, then points ahead.
As if I’ll stop just because he asked me to.
Theaudacity.
Something Yulian has in excess.
I push the speed, but he matches me, gliding in parallel no matter how hard I go—still waving like a reckless bastard. Who the hell rides a motorcycle half naked, bandages in place of gloves, with no sense of safety whatsoever?
Someone with a death wish, obviously.
Headlights flash at Yulian from the opposite lane, but instead of dropping back, he floors it, shooting past me and flying up the hill.
Gripping the steering wheel tight, I hit the brakes so hard, the seat belt digs into my chest at the impact, and my whole body lunges forward.
The other car blares its horn, the sound ripping through the silence of the night, as Yulian cuts in front of me, speeds ahead, then swerves—stopping dead across from me.
I grab the steering wheel firmly as the car comes to a halt, and so does my heart, because what in the ever-loving fuck?—
Both my hands are trembling slightly on the steering wheel as I look up.
Through the windshield, I see Yulian’s sitting on his bike, one foot on the ground, one hand on the handlebars as he waves at me one finger at a time.
Thismotherfucker?—
I release my seat belt and swing the door open, then stride toward him. My hand instantly wraps around his throat, choking him in a fraction of a second.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, asshole? You have a death wish?”
“Nah, my wish is something less than that, actually,” he strains, tapping my arm. “A kiss, if you must know. From you, of course.”
This damn?—
I shake him a few times with my grip on his throat, feeling the tendons tense beneath my fingers. “We could’ve died.”
“But we didn’t, because you stopped.” I can’t see his eyes beneath the helmet, but I can hear the grin in his voice. “You’ll always stop for me, won’t you?”
I tighten my grip on the bastard, then shove him away. He loses balance and nearly falls ass-first on the street.
But I know I can’t have a conversation with the asshole, not when he always seems to be in the perfect mood to piss me off.
