Tyler tosses my black motorbike helmet into my hands and pulls on the red cap that was tucked in the back of his jeans. ‘We’d know if he came back.’
‘We’ll hang around town for a bit. If he’s here, we’ll find him,’ I say, shoving my helmet in place. I jerk my chin toward Tyler’s phone. ‘Alexander will lead us to him sooner or later.’
Tyler gives me a flat look. ‘Are we sure Alexander’s part of it?’
‘He was talking about a race. One that wasn’t The Tropics.’ I adjust my chin strap. ‘But the only way to find out for sure is to watch him for a bit, see if there are any spots he keeps going back to.’
Tyler reaches up, curling the edges of the brim of his cap. ‘It was so much easier when we just beat them senseless.’
‘You mean it felt better.’ I agree. ‘But it didn’t get us anywhere. You’ve got a good idea with this, if it works.’
‘If I’m going to be up all night, I’m getting food. On you, obviously.’
‘The staff know your order.’
I notice the dark circles under Tyler’s eyes before he disappears inside. He’s getting as tired as I am.
Twisting the throttle, my bike revs. I hit the road, drifting through the streets, passing shops selling overpriced house decor and boutique clothing stores. I’ve never liked Empire City, but my dad is right. There’s money here. A lot of it.
Enough to make a certain fucker disappear.
When the road opens up, I hammer down on the throttle, speeding back to Booker Bay. Everything fades and becomes background noise. It’s just me and the wind. My head clears through the noise and I find focus. This feeling is what keeps my sanity, and the devil knows that’s hanging on by a fraying fucking thread.
It takes fifteen minutes to cross the bridge and reach the outskirts of Booker Bay. Another six minutes pass before I reach Coachman’s Park, when a familiar sight slows me to a halt and I manoeuvre my bike behind a few large trees.
Even at nightfall, I recognise her silhouette. I’d recognise her in total darkness. In a different lifetime. In a different body.
Gianna Brooks.
The name I’ve groaned over and over these last few years. The same name that comes back to haunt me during my loneliest hours. The need for revenge, my never-ending search, even fucking oxygen – none of that shit matters when I look at Gianna Brooks.
Fuck.
She’s … I don’t even know where to start. She’s like sunshine hitting your skin for the first time after weeks of rain. She moves like everything touching her tanned skin is silk spilling across her body. Her untamed curls act like a small taste of the absolute wildfire she is inside.
The sight of her has my pulse racing.What the fuck are you doing out here, in the dark, at midnight? Alone?
Chuckie appears from the lake with a stick in his mouth, shaking off the water. She laughs as the droplets wet her, and the sound tugs me in.
Four years.
After all this time, I still want her. Only now, I wouldn’t give her sweet and tender.No.Shit has changed. My cock jerks at the thought of driving inside her, filling her up so I’m everywhere inside her. It’s only fair, because she’s everywhere inme. Even when I close my eyes, my dreams are filled with the glow in her chestnut eyes and I wake with my skin burning for her touch.
I lean across the tank of my bike and watch her, not wanting to leave yet. I know I can’t have her, and I’m pretty sure she hates me. But I’ll take it.
Gianna Brooks is an ache that’s settled under my skin, deep in between the spaces of logic and impulse. I’ve come to realise this ache is want, and it’s patient. It doesn’t rush. I want more than just her body. I want her hesitation. Her surrender, right before she breaks. I want the part of her thatgasps before she moans. I may have been the one who left, but this time, I won’t settle foralmost. I want her, all of her. Every boundary. Every dark space. All her light. I wanteverything.
But, like all else in life, everything I want is on the other side of fear. Love, want or any of those other fucked-up emotions … none can breathe when they’re suffocated beneath fear.
I need to findhimfirst. I made a promise. I’ll be damned if I’m not keeping it.
Chapter 4
Gianna
FOUR YEARS AGO
‘Monz.’ I hold my sketchbook in my arms, watching as she retrieves our textbook for Renaissance Literature from her bag. I say ‘ours’ because we share, and by ‘share’, I mean I’m too lazy to carry my own. Even though our majors are different, we chose the same electives to have at least a few classes together.
