Chapter 23
Emmett
The bike rockets forward and I slide back into the cradle of Tristen’s legs.
There’s something hard pressing into my lower back, but the seat is weird and stiff and none of that matters when the air hits my face through the open mask of the helmet.
He twists the throttle like he showed me before we got on, thrusting us through the parking lot, which is really just a bunch of cars taking over the grass.
My grip on the handlebars doesn’t hold when he curves us around an errant car and a yelp escapes me when I start to slide sideways.
We straighten, and I slide back into place with my heart in my throat and Tristen’s wrists in a death grip.
“Holy shit.”
I barely hear his chuckle over the brrrnnngg of the bike.
It … It’s a nice sound.
Both the laugh and the bike. Loud enough to drown out the voices in my head telling me how I don’t deserve shit. Voices that sound like my mother. My step-father.
I jerk upright at the sudden flood of that man’s face in my mind, the back of my helmet smashing into Tristen’s, and we wobble.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Tristen yells and kicks out a leg as we tip, saving my ass from scraping along the gravel beneath.
The engine stalls out, at least that’s what I think it’s called, and he rolls us to a stop.
“Let me off,” I mutter, but it sounds too loud as I shove at the arms caging me in.
Tristen jerks back immediately, taking with him the warmth and freedom I first felt when we got on this thing, and I scramble to solid ground.
Except the too-big shoe catches on something when I go to kick my leg back over and I stumble. Slip on the tiny rocks and crash palms first.
“Shit, I’m so sorry.”
Tristen’s voice sounds muffled when I roll to my side and cradle my hands to my chest.
I know they’re bleeding just from the warmth alone, the wetness that spreads, but I can’t look at them. I can’t.
“Emmett, let me see?” It comes out like a question, but it still seems far away. Too far away and my eyes well up.
Why does it hurt more when it’s an accident?
I just want … I just want to be fucking free. I don’t want this anymore. The pain of being alive is just … too much.
“I should have put you on the back. Fuck, Em, I’m sorry.”
I shake my head, the helmet growing tighter. Darker. The little window in the front shrinking, taking with it the blurry vision of Tristen crouched next to me.
Don’t go …
“Get it off,” I whisper and uncurl my fists. They burn, sting with tiny little cuts as I plant my hands on the fiberglass and yank.
It doesn’t come free.
“Get it off. Get it off.”
“I gotta touch you to do that, bub.” There’s something in Tristen’s voice that feels off. Uncertain. Wobbly almost and it makes this even worse.
“Just get it off!”
The feel of his fingertips digging into my chin makes me jerk back.
He does it again and I can’t help but jolt back.
I don’t want this. I don’t want to be touched, but this fucking helmet feels like it’s shrinking on my head and crushing my skull in the process.
“Emmett,” he snaps, deep and raw. “Stop.”
I freeze.
A chill rushes down my spine.
And I lock up even though my heart is attempting to race through my skin.
I feel his fingers under my chin, gentle when I expect rough. I hear the snap of the strap’s buckle releasing and it’s loud. Yet … freeing as the cage around my head is pulled off and I drag in a breath of fresh air.
It smells like sage and dirt. Fuel and leather.
“Em, look at me.”
“You … called me your boyfriend,” I whisper to his pumping chest.
Tristen jolts like I physically touched him with the words that startle me just the same and it knocks him back on his ass.
The moment is loaded, the silence stretching between us like a tangible thing I could reach out and grab. Yank back and hope that my words come back with it.
I don’t even know why I said it. Why that matters.
He didn’t mean it.
No one wants me like that.
“I …” He clears his throat and when I risk a glance at him, he’s staring off. Running his thumb nail beneath the one on his forefinger. Brown eyes growing more and more distant with each passing second.
“Never mind,” I cut in before he says anything else. “Thanks for standing up for me.”
My head swims when I jump to my feet, my vision clouding then clearing as I brush my hands off. Then some of the dirt from my pants.
The dried blood rubs off and red smears across my palms.
“Shit, Em. Let me look at that.”
“It’s fine,” I mutter and ball my fists up against my chest.
That doesn’t stop him from reaching for my wrists, the rough pads of his fingers barely grazing over my skin, though it feels like he’s made of coals. Slowly, so very slowly, he wraps his grip around me, turning my fists over.
He steps closer.
“Let me see, please?”
My heart feels like it’s going to pop.
I swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat.
His scent, too much and not enough all at once, fills in around me like the hospital blanket, like a safe space, and my fingers loosen. Uncurl. Show him the tiny cuts marking my skin.
My stomach rolls at the sight of blood, the burn of the scrapes throbbing when my heart rate kicks back up into overdrive.
“Burns, Tristen,” I mutter, my eyes stinging. “It’s not supposed to burn.”
He nods and pulls my right hand closer to his face. “That’s normal. There’s dirt and shit in there.”
Lips pursing, Tristen blows a light breath over the broken skin and it’s like ice to the fire I hold. He repeats the same thing to the other one, gentle with his handling, caring in his nature.
My lip wobbles.
“We should get these cleaned up.”
“Okay.”
Dipping to meet my gaze, Tristen offers a soft smile. “I am sorry, Em. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”
I sniff and nod.
“I know. It’s fine.”
Swallowing hard when he gives my fingers another squeeze before dropping them, I follow him back to the tipped over bike and shudder.
“Will you promise to hang onto me if I put you on the back?”
What other option do I have?
We’re easily half a mile away from where he left the truck and I sure as shit can’t push this beast back to where we parked if he needs help. I barely got Hatley’s out of the bed without dumping it on top of myself.
Besides … it’s not weird if it’s necessary, right? It’s not like I want to touch him.
I don’t.
My stomach rolls.
I nod anyway.
“Promise.”