Chapter 9
ADELAIDE
Wind in my hair, Luca’s back warm against my chest, the road stretching out ahead of us through palms and sun and that ridiculous Hawaiian light that makes everything look too good to be real, and I think, Fine, Hawaii.
I see your game: make it impossible to spiral properly by throwing hunks at me until I’m too distracted to keep panicking.
Rude.
The bike eats up the road like it was built for racing, and Oahu rolls past in flashes of color and heat.
Open-front shops. A food truck with a line halfway down the block.
Smoke from something grilled curling into the air and making me seriously consider abandoning all current plans in favor of chasing barbecue.
A pair of surfers wander across the road with boards under their arms and probably not a single urgent thought between them, because apparently this is just a normal weekday here.
Luca’s hand settles on my bare knee at a red light, and my entire body notices, buzzing. “You good back there?” he asks, turning his head just enough for me to catch his profile in the helmet.
“Honestly? This is the best I’ve felt all day.”
His thumb shifts once against my skin before his hand stills again. “That makes me smile.”
“If this is how you get around all the time, I understand your whole personality now.”
He gives a low huff of laughter. “That right?”
“Mm-hmm. Fast bike. Loud engine. Mild death wish. Deep emotional commitment to making an entrance.”
Then he says, “You forgot ‘devastatingly handsome.’ ”
I laugh, and hate how easy he makes it. “That part was implied.”
“Dangerous answer.”
“I’ve been told I give those.”
The light changes. His hand leaves my knee and goes back to the handlebar, which is probably for the best because I noticed the loss of it way too much.
That’s the problem here. Not just Luca, though he is absolutely a problem.
Big body, dark eyes, rough voice, competent hands, motorcycle, terrible timing. The full disaster package.
It’s that I feel… lighter back here.
Not safe, exactly—I’m not that far gone. My van was trashed, with four tires slashed now. Somebody is either following me or trying very hard to make sure I know they can.
But with the wind in my face and Luca in front of me, solid and steady and absurdly male, I feel close to safe. Close enough to miss it when it’s gone. That’s the honest part.
In LA, Omegas like me learned how to move through the world without inviting comment.
Eyes forward, don’t hesitate, don’t let men mistake being alone for being available.
The richer ones had drivers, security, packs, family, somebody orbiting close enough to make people think twice.
The rest of us got good at reading rooms and locking doors and pretending we weren’t tired.
The woman who got me into the Lumen agency was an older Omega, widowed, smart as hell, and one of the only reasons I ever made it through those doors in the first place. I knew how rare that kind of help was. And then I went and trusted Daniel Nixon by sleeping with him.
So, yes. Clearly my judgment has been flawless.
I press my face more firmly into the wind and shake that thought out before it ruins the best part of this day.
Luca takes a turn, and a low building comes into view with a hand-painted sign that reads Koa’s Auto.
The lot in front of it is a pure mechanical mess.
Towers of tires stacked against one wall.
A rusted hoist visible through the open roller door.
Two cars in various stages of disassembly.
Sparks spitting somewhere inside from a grinder.
The air smells like hot oil, rubber, and sweat.
He pulls in and kills the engine.
I swing off the bike, peel the helmet off, and run a hand through my hair.
Luca accepts the helmet from me while I take in the place. I glance at the stacks of tires, the battered signage, the stripped car body on blocks near the side wall.
“Pass your inspection?” he jokes.
“It has personality,” I murmur. “Which is usually code for ‘tetanus risk,’ but in this case, I think it’s working.”
His mouth kicks up. “Come on, let’s get this done.”
We head inside, and a man rises from under the hood of a truck in the middle bay, wiping his hands on a rag. He’s big and wearing a grin that’s genuine from the second he spots Luca.
“Koa,” Luca calls out.
Koa’s eyes flick to me, quick and assessing, but not in the slimy way I’m used to. More like he’s checking the situation because Luca brought me here, which somehow makes me suspicious for an entirely new reason.
“This your van, yeah?” he asks.
His voice is warm and easy, local in that unmistakable way, the words rolling softer at the edges.
Up close, he looks even more solid than he did from a distance.
Dark golden-brown skin, thick black hair pulled back at the nape, forearms streaked with grease and tattooed from wrist to elbow in bold patterns that disappear under his shirtsleeves.
I raise a brow before Luca can answer. “I do actually have a name.”
Koa’s grin flashes wider. “Shoots, I was hoping you did.”
Luca mutters, “Told you.”
I fold my arms. “You told him what, exactly?”
“That you had a mouth on you.”
Koa lets out a low laugh, clearly enjoying himself. “I like her already.”
Then he turns to Luca, and his whole face opens up. “Brah, good to see you. Been too long.”
He grabs Luca’s hand, pulling him into that quick clasp-and-shoulder-bump that only happens with people who go way back.
“You made good time.”
“When don’t I?” Luca says. “This is Adelaide.”
Koa looks back at me. “I’m Koa.”
“Hi.” I shake his hand, and he shifts his grip right away when he realizes I’m not braced for the full mechanic-crusher version, which I appreciate. “Thanks for doing this on short notice.”
“A’ole pilikia. Anything for this one.” He jerks his chin toward Luca. “Van’s round back, all opened up. Tires gotta come mainland. Need the right load rating, yeah? Otherwise, she gonna ride all stupid.”
“A few days?” I ask.
“Maybe less, if one salvage yard comes through.” He shrugs. “Guy’s looking at it.” Then he gives Luca one solid clap on the shoulder. “Holler if you need me.”
He heads back into the bay, and one of the other men calls something at him from under a lifted truck. Koa fires back in a quick stream of local English too fast for me to catch more than a few words, and whatever he says makes both of them laugh.
Luca jerks his head for me to follow, and we head around the back of the building, where the whole lot opens up.
More parts stacked in rows. An old Camaro up on blocks that looks like it’s been there since the nineties.
A faded couch shoved over a tarp. And there, under a corrugated shelter in the far corner, is my van.
She looks weirdly lonely sitting there.
Luca opens the rear doors, and I climb in and start going through what’s left, grabbing a bag and filling it with more essentials.
Clothes, toiletries, shoes, which is genuinely the one fortunate thing about today.
I pass two bags out to Luca, and he holds them open as I fill them with more things, including my snacks, as they are not going to waste.
“You surf really well,” he says from outside.
I pause with a T-shirt in my hands. “Was that a compliment? From the professional surfer?”
“It’s an observation from someone who’s been on a board a long time.” He leans against the van. “Anyway, you surf like you’ve been doing it most of your life.”
“That means a lot coming from you,” I murmur, loving that it brings a smile to his face because this guy’s grin unleashes the butterflies in my stomach.
“When I left the military, I carried a lot of baggage. Couldn’t sleep or sit still. I struggled to really figure out who I was outside of work. So I got a board and started going out every morning. Hours of surfing every single day. It gave me something to focus on that wasn’t everything else.”
I stuff some shoes into one of the bags he’s holding. “Did it work?”
“Mostly.” He glances at me. “Still can’t sleep great. But now when I can’t sleep, I paddle out at five in the morning and watch the sun come up, so it’s a better problem to have.”
I think about the specific shape of the thing he’s describing—the need to move, to do something physical with the weight of what you’ve been carrying. I know that shape. It’s why I was in the water at six thirty this morning on my own before coming in for some breakfast and heading back out.
“Anyway, if you ever want, I can show you some tricks in the water,” he offers.
“I’ll take you up on those lessons,” I say. “If we get the chance.”
“We’ll get the chance.” He says it like it’s settled.
“You’re very confident about the future for someone who met me this morning.”
“One of us has to be.” He chuckles as I take the now-full bags from him and do one last check that I haven’t left anything behind.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him drift around the front of the van, slow and casual, like he’s just giving it another once-over. I step down properly and catch him crouching briefly near the front tire, his hand disappearing under the body for a second before he straightens again.
Then he just strolls on, heading over to where Koa has reappeared with a clipboard in hand.
They talk quietly for a minute. I can’t hear any of it, but Koa makes a note, nods once, and Luca heads back toward me.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yep.” He takes the bags from my hands, then closes the van doors gently.
We head back around to the bike, and he pops open the compartment under the seat. It’s somehow bigger than it looks, because both bags fit inside without a fight.
I stare at it. “That is deep.”
He glances up. “What is?”
“The fact that your ridiculous murder-bike also has practical storage.”
That gorgeous smile returns. “No one gets on this bike but me. Ever.” He says it like that explains everything.
I take the helmet he hands me. “And yet here I am.”
He watches me turn it over in my hands. “Consider yourself exclusive company.”
“I feel incredibly honored,” I murmur. “I’ll add it to my résumé.”
He swings one leg over the bike and looks back at me, amused. “What would that even say?”
“Trusted by large Alpha with a motorcycle,” I say. “Very niche credential. Highly transferable skills.”
That gets a real grin out of him. Sunlight catches in his eyes, and for half a second, I just stare at him. Honestly, it’s irritating how handsome he is.
“So,” I say, because staring is not a hobby I should be indulging in. “You and the guys. No Omegas?”
“Not currently.” He settles his hands on the bars. “We’ve dated but nothing stayed.”
I tip my head. “Interesting.”
He glances over at me. “That judgment?”
“Nope. Observation.”
“Mm-hmm.” He keeps staring at me. “Get on.”
I climb on behind him, adjusting carefully, finding the balance point, and the second I shift closer, I feel him react. Sharp inhale. Stillness through his whole body.
“Take your time,” he says, in a tone that very clearly means the opposite.
I grin against his shoulder, pull my helmet on, then I wrap my arms around his waist. “So none of you are looking?” I ask, because if I don’t keep talking, I’m going to start noticing the shape of him under my hands, and that seems unwise.
He starts the engine, and the bike comes alive beneath us with that low, hungry growl.
“I didn’t say we weren’t looking,” he says louder as we pull out. “I said nothing stuck. Different problem.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The wrong ones keep showing up.”
“That’s almost poetic,” I say.
“Don’t spread it around.”
Warm air hits us as we pick up speed, and I press in a little closer, partly because of the road and also because apparently my body has stopped consulting me. His scent wraps around me straight away, the vanilla, the dark-roasted espresso, and the fresh rain smell sinking through me.
I’ve felt this before—on the plane, with Ace.
Back then I told myself it was a combination of nerves, champagne, and adrenaline… oh, and the fact that I’d had an unexpectedly filthy encounter with a stranger in first class.
I’m starting to think maybe it wasn’t.
“You keep doing that,” Luca says over the engine.
“What?”
“Pressing closer and rubbing yourself against me, then pulling back.”
I stare down at the road sliding under us. “That’s just the bike.”
“The road is straight.”
“Then why am I bouncing around?”
“That’s what I’m asking.” He laughs, and it vibrates into me through his back. His hand drops for a second, covering mine where it’s clasped around his waist, before going back to the handlebar. “I’m glad you paddled out to us this morning.”
That catches me off guard. My throat goes tight in that annoying, emotional way it’s been doing all day. “That was almost sweet,” I say at last.
He just nods and rides onward. The palms blur by on either side, late light turning everything gold, and somewhere ahead is a house on the beach and three men who, for reasons I still don’t understand, have decided my mess is worth stepping into.
I think about what Luca told me earlier, about not sleeping, trying to find himself on the other side of a bad stretch by getting up before dawn and chasing waves until his head went quiet.
Then I remember that since leaving LA, I’ve been checking over my shoulder, studying every parked car twice, the anxiety clinging to me like a straitjacket.
Maybe Oahu is just a place for damaged people with good instincts and bad timing. And that’s why the location feels so perfect. I tighten my arms around his waist a little.
He doesn’t say anything.
Neither do I.
The road curves, the ocean flashes between buildings in a streak of blue and gold, and for once, it doesn’t feel as if my life may be actively collapsing around me.