Grabbing my jeans from the floor, I pull them on and head downstairs. I need some air, some space to think.
Downstairs, I pace the living room, running my hands through my hair. Goonie watches me from his perch on the windowsill, tail twitching.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do with all this?” I mutter to myself.
I grab a beer from the fridge and step outside onto the porch. The cool night air feels good against my bare chest as I drop into one of the Adirondack chairs and stare out at the dark trees.
This whole situation is fucked up beyond belief. I’m falling for a woman who literally created me. A woman who can apparently still change who I am with just a few words. How can I trust anything I feel? How can I be sureanyof this is real?
I take a long pull from my beer, letting the cool, bitter liquid slide down my throat. The moon is high and full, casting silver light across the yard.
I remember the look on Noia’s face when she saw her tattoo for the first time—the wonder, the joy, the connection she felt to my art. That was real, right? It had to be.
And the way she trembled beneath me only a few minutes ago, the way she gasped my name as she came apart—that felt real too.
But now I’m questioning everything.
“Fuck,” I whisper into the dark.
I’ve already survived so much. But this—this existential mindfuck—might be what finally breaks me.
With a frustrated growl, I stand and go back inside.
Maybe a ride will clear my head.
I hurry into my room and grab a Henley from the closet and pull it over my head.
Back in the kitchen, I scribble a quick note and leave it on the counter.
After closing the front door, I shrug into my leather jacket, shove my helmet on, and straddle my motorcycle. The engine roars to life, and I tear down the drive.
I ride until the first hints of dawn start to streak the sky, then turn back. By the time I pull into the driveway, I’ve made a decision.
I need to know for sure if my life is really mine now. And there’s only one way to find out.
FIFTY
noia
The roarof an engine jolts me from a deep sleep. Disoriented, I reach across the bed, finding only empty space.
“Ryder?” I call out, my voice thick with sleep.
But the only answer I get is silence.
Throwing back the covers, I wince when the movement pulls at my tattoo. I grab Ryder’s T-shirt from the floor and pull it over my head, then pad to the window just in time to see his motorcycle disappearing down the driveway.
My stomach knots with worry. Where is he going at this hour?
I check my phone: 2:37 a.m.
Goonie meows at me from the doorway, looking just as confused as I feel.
“I don’t know why he left either,” I tell him.
Scooping him up, I head downstairs.
The kitchen is dark, but when I flip on the light, I spot a piece of paper on the kitchen island. Heart pounding, I pick it up.
