Before Edge’s love turned into surveillance.
I texted back:
Desert bonfire. Rich kid party. Need backup.
Lala responded instantly.
Outfit level?
I looked at myself in the mirror.
Then I smiled.
Funeral for their social lives.
Her answer came with skull emojis.
I tucked my phone into my back pocket and headed downstairs.
The garage sat behind the house, connected to the long driveway that led toward the clubhouse lot. Technically,Edge’s bikes were not toys. Technically, touching one without permission was a death wish. Technically, I did not have a motorcycle license.
Technically, a lot of things.
The back garage door stuck when I pulled it open, groaning like it wanted to warn someone.
“Don’t,” I whispered at it.
The garage smelled like oil, metal, leather, and my father. It was dim inside, sunlight cutting through high windows in dusty gold strips. Three bikes sat parked in a row.
Edge’s favorite was in front.
Black. Chrome. Mean enough to look alive.
I stopped beside it, my pulse kicking hard.
This was the stupid part.
The party? Reckless.
The outfit? Dramatic.
Bringing my friends? Satisfying.
But taking Edge’s bike?
That was crossing a line painted in gasoline.
I could already hear Regan’s voice in my head.
Baby girl, revenge is fun until your father has an aneurysm.
I could also hear Brielle’s voice.
Destiny. Really? That’s a stripper’s name.
My hand closed around the handlebar.
The key hung on the wall because Edge trusted locks, gates, guns, men, and fear more than he trusted common sense. Nobody stole from Edge Rourke because nobody wanted to die tired.
