I took the key.
My heart hammered so hard it felt like it might crack a rib.
I had ridden before.
Not legally.
Not alone.
Not this bike.
But I knew how. I’d grown up around engines. I knew throttle, clutch, brake, weight, balance. I knew the way power vibrated through metal before it obeyed. Edge thought he had kept me from learning.
Men underestimated what girls could learn by watching.
I rolled the bike backward slowly, wincing at every sound. The tires touched gravel outside.
The desert opened in front of me.
For one second, fear crawled up my throat.
Not fear of crashing.
Not fear of getting caught.
Fear of what happened after.
Because once I did this, I couldn’t fold myself back into the good little almost-daughter who obeyed because everyone had already lost too much.
Once I did this, Edge would know.
Regan would know.
Tarak would know.
And maybe, finally, I would too.
I swung my leg over the bike.
It was too big.
Too heavy.
Too much.
Perfect.
The engine roared to life beneath me.
The sound slammed through the garage, the driveway, my bones.
Somewhere in the house, a dog started barking.
Somewhere near the clubhouse, a man shouted.
My phone buzzed.
Probably Regan.
