Chapter 6
SIX
CARMEN
Sleep weighed heavily on me last night. It pushed me down until I rolled over and crawled deeper under the blanket.
Curled up. Not wanting to come out. Even now that I’m awake, the alarm from my phone doesn’t push me to move.
It keeps ringing. Louder and louder. Until I shove one hand out from under the blanket.
I exhale, my fingers blindly searching the nightstand for the phone.
When I finally find it, I drag it back under the covers with me.
It’s Saturday, and it’s already nine in the morning.
Since arriving at the Harrington house, time has passed faster than it ever did in juvie. I drop the phone beside me and close my eyes, trying to slip back into sleep. But sleep never comes easily to me.
The wind whistles outside, slipping through the gaps in the balcony door. I notice it too late. The door creaks open. I hear quiet footsteps following the wind. I don’t need to look; I already know it’s him.
I peel the blanket away from my face. My hair is tangled and knotted from tossing and turning all night. I glare toward the balcony.
“Judas, go away,” I shout and then pull the blanket back over my head.
The blanket shifts as he tugs it away from me. I yank it back, holding it tighter this time.
“Judas, stop it,” I shout again, then uncover my face.
He stays there, silently watching me. His smile widens when our eyes meet.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, squinting at him.
He lifts his hands, curling them as if gripping bike handlebars, and leans forward. His eyebrows rise, waiting for a response.
I stare at him for a moment. “…No.”
“Your dad is already mad at me because his perfect son almost died last night. I’m not getting blamed again,“ I say.
He rolls his eyes dramatically, reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and types quickly with his thumbs. He holds the screen out toward me.
Just come outside. Trust me.
I shake my head and drop back onto the pillow, staring up at the ceiling.
“Absolutely not. It’s Saturday.”
He huffs and taps the screen again.
You’re already awake.
“That’s your fault,” I reply.
A smirk pulls at his mouth as he puts the phone away.
Before I can react, he grabs my wrist. Tugs.
I end up sitting upright. Cold air rushes under the blanket.
Too cold. My hands instinctively reach for it, pulling it back around me, but my feet are already bare on the floor.
He points toward the door, then at me, finishing with a small shooing motion.
I yank my hand free. “You are unbelievable.”
He shrugs and crosses his arms, leaning against the wall like he has all the time in the world.
I look at the bed. Then at him. Back at the bed.
It won’t matter. He won’t give up.
I stand with a sigh.
“Fine,” I mutter, throwing the blanket off. “If I die on that bike, I’m haunting you.”
His grin spreads, and he laughs, still not moving. Only when I step toward the closet does he push off the wall. The moment I reach the middle of the room, he closes the distance behind me. I feel his breath on my back.
I lift my head, catching our reflection in the mirror. His hands hover just above my shoulders. His eyes are on me.
That’s when it hits me.
Oh.
I’m wearing nothing but a white tank top and a thong.
I gasp.
“Turn around, psycho,” I shout, spinning my finger in the air.
He laughs, winks at me, and turns slowly. He is enjoying every second.
“And don’t rush me,” I warn, even as I dart for the closet. I grab a pair of tight blue jeans from the chair and shove my legs into them, hopping as I yank them up, fighting to get them over my hips.
“You can turn around,” I say.
As I zip my jeans, he turns around, his eyes scanning my ass. I raise a brow.
“My ass is not yours to see, ‘kay,“ I say, smacking my lips.
He chuckles and lifts his eyes back to mine.
“I swear, if you make me fall,” I start.
He holds up two fingers and crosses them, then presses a hand to his chest like I’ve wounded him deeply.
“Liar,” I say, smiling. “Turn around again.”
When he does, I tug my tank top down and grab a yellow shirt from the closet, moving it over my head. There is nothing black in there. Just pink after pink, and this is the only color that isn’t... Pink.
I gag and turn back around.
“Ready?” I ask, grabbing my sneakers and slipping them on.
He pulls out his phone, types, and shoves the screen toward me.
What’s wrong, you don’t like pink?
“The last time I wore pink, I was six,” I say. “So no. Now my choice is black or black, and somehow Catherine decided I would be perfect in pastel colors.”
He laughs, fingers flying across the screen.
You’re right. Yellow is not your color.
I tilt my head, stare at him, blink twice, then shove him lightly as I walk toward the balcony.
“Don’t be an asshole,” I say, sitting on the railing. “Aren’t we going?”
He looks at me, points toward the door as if reconsidering, then shrugs and gives in. He steps onto the railing and allows me to jump first. I land gently in the garden, followed immediately by him. Luckily, it’s not a far drop.
I turn to him, grinning. “Do they know we can just jump out and leave whenever we want?”
Judas shakes his head and presses a palm to his chest.
“Oh, right,” I say. “You’re the golden child.”
He pinches me under the arm. I squeak as he traps his lower lip between his teeth and grabs me, lifting me off the ground.
“I can walk, Judas,” I say.
He shakes his head and carries me toward the garage anyway.
He lets me down, my feet touching the ground, and walks toward the blue bike. He grabs the helmet and tosses it at me. I barely catch it.
“Asshole,” I shout.
He puts on a balaclava, then his helmet, fastening the strap under his chin. I can’t help staring as his muscles move while his fingers work the metal clip.
Carmen, stop drooling, I think.
He clears his throat, pulling me back, then pats the top of his helmet with his palm, showing me to do the same. I tap the helmet twice and look at him.
His palm hits the helmet as he laughs, clearly because that’s not what I am supposed to do. He pulls out his phone and types.
Put your helmet on, you dumbass.
I blush, my lips pressing together in shame. I put the helmet on and immediately pull the visor down so he can’t see me. He sits on the bike, and I move closer, place my hand on the seat, and lift myself up behind him.
“Ready,” I whisper.
He starts the engine, and my whole body vibrates with it. As he twists the throttle, we roll out of the garage. This time, he doesn’t even bother to close it.
My hands clutch his chest, fingers digging into his hoodie. He notices. Slows just enough to pull me closer until my body is pressed flush to his back.
I smack his shoulder once. He laughs and speeds up anyway as we hit the main road.
It’s strange how fear turns into freedom.
As he eases off the throttle, my hands loosen. They lift on their own, arms spreading as I close my eyes. The wind rushes past me. For a second, it almost feels like flying.
Is this what it’s going to be like with him? Chasing every ride like I’m a bird and this is my last flight. I don’t care. I want it. I want to learn how to ride by his side.
My hands slide back to his chest. I lean forward, resting against his back, almost melting into him, letting myself go.
Every curve pulls me with him. I move when he moves, trusting him completely. Every kilometre per hour feels like more freedom, like the world is loosening its grip.
And if this is what it feels like, then I want all of it.
We ride for about twenty minutes before he slows and turns off the main road. Toward the beach. There is no one around. No cars. No people. No one is watching. When we stop, he swings off the bike and moves his feet on the ground.
His hand brushes the lower part of my back. I gasp. I didn’t expect the touch. He presses gently, sliding me forward until I am closer to the front of the bike.
He crouches in front of me, focused. He lifts my feet one by one and adjusts them on the pegs. First left, then right. He taps each foot, checking their balance, before finally looking up at me.
“You’re taking this way too seriously,” I smiled towards him.
He raises his brow as he stands, then settles behind me. I swallow the lump in my throat when I feel every single muscle as he leans in, arches my body forward. He takes my left hand, then my right, and presses them onto the handlebars.
I clear my throat, “Are we driving like this?” I ask.
He responds with a laugh, moves his right hand from mine, twists the throttle, and we start moving.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I curse under my breath as the bike lurches forward. My stomach drops.
My fingers clamp around the rubber grips, his hands covering mine, the ridges pressing into my palms as the bike vibrates beneath us.
Panic spikes, and I do something stupid. I tilt my head back toward him. Instantly, his hands loosen on mine, his chest pressing firmly against my back, steadying me. A hand taps my thigh once. Then again. Slow. A reminder to breathe. To look forward.
The bike grows louder beneath us as he picks up speed, and somehow the panic eases.
The road is empty, and no one is around except us.
Every time the bike leans, his body adjusts mine instinctively, correcting me before I even realize I’ve made a mistake.
His knees tighten at my sides, guiding me instead of forcing.
After a while, my grip loosens.
A laugh escapes me.
“Judas, I’m actually doing it!” I scream, excitement flooding my voice.
He tilts his helmet slightly, glancing down at me in the mirror, and nods.
As he feels me growing steadier, the pressure of his hands eases. One lifts first, then the other loosens, resting briefly on my thighs while he stays close behind me, ready.
“No,” I whisper. “Come back.”
He taps my thighs gently. Once. Then again.