Chapter 4
FOUR
CARMEN
Iused to believe that bikers are just fuckboys on wheels.
I still think that. But riding with him, holding onto him, it feels like holding onto life itself while it beats.
My heart is racing, my eyes are closed, and my thoughts run faster than his bike.
It feels like we are on the edge, like we could jump at any moment into something we don’t know we would survive.
My palms press against his chest, and I feel his heartbeat; it’s beating faster than mine.
I used to think they ride because they are empty inside. Now I think they ride because they have too much built up inside, and they use the road and speed to hide it. We just choose different ways to mask it.
When I open my eyes, he slows down, and we stop in front of a beach house.
I still hold onto him. He taps twice on my hands, and I gently let go.
He steps off the bike and plants his feet on the ground, fixing his jeans as I climb down after him.
I can still feel vibrations through my body, lingering like an aftershock.
He nods toward me as he takes off his helmet. I remove mine too, meeting his two imperfectly perfect eyes.
“I wish I could ride,” I say.
He chuckles, stepping closer and touching the throttle. Then he pulls his phone from his pocket and types, turning the screen toward me.
I look down.
Be a good girl, and I might teach you how to ride.
Did he really type that? And did I really bite my lip after I read it?
I exhale, locking eyes with him as he pulls off his balaclava.
“If you teach me how to ride, I will teach you how to speak,” I say.
He laughs, then looks down at his phone and types again, angling it toward me.
It’s easier to ride than speak.
“Maybe you just need someone who can teach you how,” I say, blinking at him.
He shakes his head, eyes sliding away as a smirk ghosts across his mouth. Just before he turns around, he shrugs, tucking his helmet under his arm.
“Judas,” I call out. He stops and looks back. “Do we even know the people inside?”
He raises his hands in a loose shake, smiling. This time, he moves closer. His fingers gently clasp mine. My chest tightens, then eases.
For him, he just wants to pull me inside. For me, his touch, his hand holding mine, feels like I finally have someone who can pull me back to life.
I glance down at my hand.
My hair tie is gone.
My breath catches, panic rushing up my spine. It’s a stupid little thing. Just a strip of rubber. But that little thing keeps me grounded. It keeps me together.
Life gives me another chance, and slowly, as I start accepting it, I feel like I am losing the pieces that have kept me who I am so far.
“No. My hair tie.” My voice drops as my eyes scan the ground, searching for it like it is made of gold. It is just rubber, but it makes me feel safe.
He watches me, confused. I look up at him, my brows pulling tight, my lips trembling as I struggle to breathe.
“I... I need it, Judas.”
My fingers twist over and over around the gold heart medallion at my throat. It does nothing.
His jaw tightens. He still holds my hand for a second longer, then lets go. While my thoughts spiral, he shifts the helmet in his grip, turns it over, and pulls the strap, freeing it.
He reaches for me again, lifting the sleeve of my leather jacket. When he sees the scars, his hand freezes.
He moves it up on my cheek, cupping it.
Then let his palm slide down to the back of my neck, pulling me into his chest. His heartbeat presses against my ear. No words come from him.
In that second, he sees me. He understands more than anyone ever has, and somehow gives me more comfort than a stupid hair tie ever could.
His helmet slips from his grasp and hits the ground.
My eyes burn, filled with tears. And I don’t force them back. For once, I don’t have to be tough and strong. Somehow, I know I can be vulnerable with him.
He eases me back, taking my wrist. Carefully, he wraps the helmet strap around it, fastening the heavy metal clip so it rests loose against my skin.
“Thanks,” I whisper, sniffing as I stare down at the black strap hugging my wrist.
His thumb lifts toward his chin, brushing it lightly, but the motion falters before it finishes.
I know that sign.
I saw it earlier today while watching a video on learning sign language. It was in the first lesson, about family.
He signed Little Sister.
I lift my hand, trying to remember what I learned earlier. The moment I meet his eyes, almost everything evaporates from my brain. But instinct of what’s left takes over.
My fingers touch my forehead, then I draw the sign down softly.
Brother.
He chuckles. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. His thumb lifts, brushing up near his lip as his jaw tightens with pride.
Maybe I am good at something.
Maybe, this time, I can let someone in.
But he still can’t tear down the walls I built; he can only crack a single brick.
He turns away, lifting his hand to tell me to follow. Before I move, I crouch, grab his helmet, and set it against the bike.
I turn and hurry to catch up to him.
We approach the wooden stairs leading to the entrance of a small beach house. Music pounds from above, with the bass vibrating so intensely that I can feel it through the steps beneath my feet. Neon light spills through the windows, bleeding color into the night outside.
By the time we reach the last step, he looks at me and nods once.
I nod back.
He greets a man standing near the entrance.
The man is almost my height, but thick through the shoulders.
Next to Judas, we both look like kids pretending to be grown.
His mustache is thin and uneven, scattered across his upper lip instead of framing his jaw.
If he shaved it off, he would look better than he does now.
He holds a bottle of beer tightly, gripping the glass as if he might drop it if he loosens his fingers.
“What’s up, man?” He slaps his palm against Judas’s, then drags his hand over his buzz cut.
His gaze shifts to me.
“Who’s this?” He licks his lips and steps closer.
Judas stops him halfway, his fist bunching in his shirt, pulling him back by the chest. “Okay, okay. I get it, man.”
“Sister,” I say, smiling.
“Oh, oh.” He laughs and shoves Judas’s shoulder. “I thought she was one of your one-night stands.” He lifts the bottle and takes a drink.
I raise a brow and look between them. Then I cross my arms over my chest. “We keep it in the family.”
Joking. Obviously.
His eyes go wide. Beer spills from his mouth, splashing all over Judas, making him tilt his head as he looks at me.
“Sorry,” I whisper, pushing my helmet into Judas’s hands.
I slip past them and step inside.
The house is packed—too many bodies for the tiny space. They all dance in front of the DJ, blurring together. On the sofa in the middle, a crowd of people gather to play games while girls dance around them.
The night swallows me whole.
They all look my age. Maybe one or two years older.
A girl with red hair steps toward me, dancing as she comes. She holds two red plastic cups in the air, smiling widely as our eyes meet. When she stops in front of me, she presses one into my hand.
“Here,” she laughs. “I have no clue who you are, but welcome to my sweet seventeen.”
I glance at the cup, then at her. “Sweet seventeen?”
“Yeah.” She grins. “I decided every birthday should be like a sweet sixteen.”
“I mean...” I lift the drink toward my mouth. “I don’t judge.”
I’m about to take a sip when Judas appears out of nowhere and knocks the cup from my hand. Whatever was in there splashes across the floor.
I stare at him, trying to piece together why he did it, but all he does is shake his head once.
“What the fuck is your problem?” I rake my eyes over him.
He grabs me under the arm and drags me toward the entrance.
“What?” I shout.
His jaw tightens. His eyes roll as he yanks his phone from his pocket and types fast, then shoves the screen in front of me.
Never, ever accept drinks from strangers.
I blow out a breath.
“Fine.” My pride refuses to back down. “Then make me one.”
He shakes his head and points a finger at my face.
Someone notices.
A man steps in from behind, pushing Judas away from me.
“Is this guy bothering you?”
“Yes,” I say. “He is.”
The man shoves Judas aside and grabs my hand. This time, Judas doesn’t follow. He raises his hands in surrender, then turns and walks out the door.
“What’s your name?” the man asks as he leads me toward the sofa.
We sat next to a couple tangled together, kissing. Across from us, a girl is lounging in a chair.
“Carmen,” I say. “Yours?”
“Axel.” He points to the blonde girl. “That’s my sister, Mina.”
She lifts two fingers in a lazy wave.
He nods toward the couple. “And that’s Knox and Dahlia.”
Then he looks back at me. “We’ve never seen you before.”
“I just moved here,” I tell him.
“That explains it.” He chuckles. “Why was that freak Judas bothering you?”
“Freak?” I arch a brow.
“He has no friends,” Mina says. “Always weird around people.” She laughs. “We tried being friends the first year, but he gave off bad vibes.” She rolls her eyes. “Girls still stare at him, though. No idea why.”
My gaze drifts back to the door.
Judas is standing there leaning against the door frame, watching.
Watching me.
“I heard he’s messed up in the head,” Mina continues. “Acts tough for no reason.”
“Fucking rich kids,” Axel adds.
I know how all of this feels, what it is like to be an outcast. So I stand up, and something inside me snaps.
“That freak is my brother,” I say. “So say another fucking thing about him and I will cut your throat.”
Her eyes widen, then she laughs. “Oh,” she says, “so you’re freak number two or something?”
My jaw locks. My tongue presses hard against the inside of my mouth. My fingers curl into a fist, metal biting into my skin as I pull the clip from the helmet strap wrapped around my hand.