For now.
9
ADELAIDE
Wind in my hair, Luca’s back warm against my chest, the road stretching out ahead of us through palms and sun and that ridiculous Hawaiian light that makes everything look too good to be real, and I think,Fine, Hawaii. I see your game:make it impossible to spiral properly by throwing hunks at me until I’m too distracted to keep panicking.
Rude.
The bike eats up the road like it was built for racing, and Oahu rolls past in flashes of color and heat. Open-front shops. A food truck with a line halfway down the block. Smoke from something grilled curling into the air and making me seriously consider abandoning all current plans in favor of chasing barbecue. A pair of surfers wander across the road with boards under their arms and probably not a single urgent thought between them, because apparently this is just a normal weekday here.
Luca’s hand settles on my bare knee at a red light, and my entire body notices, buzzing. “You good back there?” he asks, turning his head just enough for me to catch his profile in the helmet.
“Honestly? This is the best I’ve felt all day.”
His thumb shifts once against my skin before his hand stills again. “That makes me smile.”
“If this is how you get around all the time, I understand your whole personality now.”
He gives a low huff of laughter. “That right?”
“Mm-hmm. Fast bike. Loud engine. Mild death wish. Deep emotional commitment to making an entrance.”
Then he says, “You forgot ‘devastatingly handsome.’?”
I laugh, and hate how easy he makes it. “That part was implied.”
“Dangerous answer.”
“I’ve been told I give those.”
The light changes. His hand leaves my knee and goes back to the handlebar, which is probably for the best because I noticed the loss of it way too much. That’s the problem here. Not just Luca, though he is absolutely a problem. Big body, dark eyes, rough voice, competent hands, motorcycle, terrible timing. The full disaster package.
It’s that I feel… lighter back here.
Not safe, exactly—I’m not that far gone. My van was trashed, with four tires slashed now. Somebody is either following me or trying very hard to make sure I know they can.
But with the wind in my face and Luca in front of me, solid and steady and absurdly male, I feel close to safe. Close enough to miss it when it’s gone. That’s the honest part.
In LA, Omegas like me learned how to move through the world without inviting comment. Eyes forward, don’t hesitate, don’t let men mistake being alone for being available. The richer ones had drivers, security, packs, family, somebody orbiting close enough to make people think twice. The rest of us got good at reading rooms and locking doors and pretending we weren’t tired.
The woman who got me into the Lumen agency was an older Omega, widowed, smart as hell, and one of the only reasons I ever made it through those doors in the first place. I knew how rare that kind of help was. And then I went and trusted Daniel Nixon by sleeping with him.
So, yes. Clearly my judgment has been flawless.
I press my face more firmly into the wind and shake that thought out before it ruins the best part of this day.
Luca takes a turn, and a low building comes into view with a hand-painted sign that reads Koa’s Auto. The lot in front of it is a pure mechanical mess. Towers of tires stacked against one wall. A rusted hoist visible through the open roller door. Two cars in various stages of disassembly. Sparks spitting somewhere inside from a grinder. The air smells like hot oil, rubber, and sweat.
He pulls in and kills the engine.
I swing off the bike, peel the helmet off, and run a hand through my hair.
Luca accepts the helmet from me while I take in the place. I glance at the stacks of tires, the battered signage, the stripped car body on blocks near the side wall.
“Pass your inspection?” he jokes.
“It has personality,” I murmur. “Which is usually code for ‘tetanus risk,’ but in this case, I think it’s working.”
