Chapter 1 #10
Still nothing. So I keep going. "Come on. Don’t make me work for it. What happened? She stood you up? Is it the cologne? Did you talk too much about child development again?"
Oh. That one earns me a sharper glare.
His girlfriend is the problem.
Yeah, of course. Should’ve fucking guessed.
I lean forward, elbow on the sill, chin in hand. "So it went badly, huh?"
He mutters something, then his phone lights up.
He lunges for it. Checks it. Locks it. Face drops.
Goddamn. That hurts to watch.
I try not to let it show, but my grin softens a little.
"There’s my answer," I say.
He narrows his eyes at me. "Why do you even care? So you can make fun of me for it later?"
"Tempting," I admit. "But no."
He raises an eyebrow.
I shrug. "You’re not exactly my favorite person in the universe, but I don’t need to watch you crumble in slow motion. That’s more depressing than funny."
He scoffs. I don’t blame him. Honestly, if I was in his place, I wouldn’t believe me either.
Still. Something about the way he’s sitting pisses me off. Not because he looks broken. Because it doesn’t suit him.
Wait.
What if… Should I… take him out?
No. No, absolutely not, that’s loser behavior. I don’t do good-guy rescue missions.
He hates me. And last time I tried to get him out of the house, I had to pass, what, seven emotional boss levels?!
I swear, at this point, I’ve dreamed of Rava saying "leave me alone" fifty times.
So why the hell am I even thinking about this? I don’t know. But he looks… Jesus Christ, he looks dead.
What fixes that? What even wakes him up?
He doesn’t want soft shit. He doesn’t want talking. He needs something…extreme. Something chaotic. Something that actually shocks him back into being alive.
My eyes go wide.
Oh.
Oh shit.
I know exactly what will wake him up.
And it’s a terrible idea.
A catastrophically, beautifully terrible idea.
"Fuck it," I mutter, more to myself than to him.
"What?" he asks warily.
"Get dressed."
He stares at me. "What?"
"I said get dressed. You’re coming with me."
"No, I’m not."
"Yes, you are."
"Gio—"
"Don’t ‘Gio’ me. I’m not letting you rot out here with your book and your sad little sighs like some rejected opera character." He crosses his arms. "I’m fine."
"You’re not, love. You made me, feel sorry. Imagine how bad you look."
He tries to glare again, but it doesn’t land as hard this time.
I grin. "Come on," I say, my tone softening just a notch. "You clearly need saving. And I’m bored enough to do it."
He doesn’t move. "Don’t you have like a bank to rob? Or flirt with a cop?"
"It can wait." I lean farther out the window. "We’re going somewhere loud. Cheap. Probably smells like fried dough and beer. It’ll be fun."
"No."
"Yes."
"Gio—"
"Ten minutes," I interrupt, disappearing back inside. "If you’re not at the front door, I’m breaking in and dragging you out in whatever sad pajama pants you’re wearing."
I slam the window shut.
I wait. I count. Five minutes pass. No sign.
I open the window again.
He’s gone from the balcony. My smile curls.
Knew it.
11) Screw You
Gio
He finally comes down.
It took him twelve minutes, but I let it slide. I lean on the bike, flipping my keys between my fingers when I see him push open the front door.
Okay. Not bad.
Burgundy polo, black pants. Simple. His usual uptight "I tried but not too hard" look. Honey-colored strands fall loosely over his forehead.
He looks so… put together.
And yet his face? Same expression as always. Like someone forced him to go out with his least favorite person.
Which… now that I think about it, might actually be me.
Should that bother me?
Probably.
Does it? Not even a little.
I grin. "Ay, why are you already frowning?" I ask.
He doesn’t miss a beat. "I’m already annoyed by the way you talk, and by the way you act."
I laugh. "What? How do I ‘act’?"
He raises his eyebrows at me. "You really wanna see how you act?" he asks.
"Sure," I say, crossing my arms.
Rava clears his throat. Straightens up. And then he looks right into my eyes.
Stares, actually. "…Okay. Watch."
His eyes drop to my mouth.
"Why are you looking at my mouth?" I ask.
"Because that’s where your eyes usually go when I talk. You know, for someone who claims he ‘doesn’t do anything,’ you study me a lot."
I cross my arms. "I don’t study you. I just have eyes."
He leans in a little. "Yeah? You ‘just have eyes’ way too close to my face, then."
"You’re the one in my face right now."
"Obviously," he murmurs, and before I can move, his fingers wrap around my wrist. His thumb presses against my pulse. "Your pulse is racing," he says.
Fucker. "Because you’re being weird," I shoot back.
"So you admit you’re uncomfortable."
I swallow. "I’m not uncomfortable."
"Then hold eye contact. If it doesn’t bother you."
"I am holding it."
"You broke it twice already."
"No I didn’t."
"You did."
"I didn’t." I take a step back.
"Look at you," he says, stepping closer. "You’re already pressing into the wall."
"Where the hell do you want me to go?" I laugh. "You caged me in!"
"Exactly. Feels familiar yet?"
"No."
"Liar. I said keep your eyes on me."
"Don’t tell me what to do."
"You used to tell me what to do all the time." His face gets closer.
"Rava," I warn.
"Hmm?"
"You’re too close."
"There’s no such thing. Not for you, anyway."
"What’s that supposed to mean?"
"It means you live in this distance," he says. "This space."
He taps his forehead to mine, mocking me. "Right here."
I look down for half a second, then drag my gaze back up to him. "Stop doing that."
"Doing what?" he says.
"Touching me like that."
"Hmm, guess who else does that."
I try to laugh, but it cracks. "I know what I’m doing, you don’t know shit."
He tilts his head, still holding my gaze. "I know you haven’t pushed me away."
"I can push you away whenever I want."
He smirks. "So do it, Giovanni."
I glare at him. "I hate you now."
"No, you don’t," he says.
"I do."
"Then why are you still here?"
"Because you’re blocking the exit, you idiot."
He grins, and his eyes flick down to my lips again. "You’re taller. Step over me."
"Okay, God, stop. That’s enough," I snap, rubbing a hand over my face because my whole system is glitching.
"I get it. Stop. Before I change my mind and leave you on that damn balcony with your depression."
"I’m not here because you forced me. I’m here by choice. So even if you regret it, that doesn’t change anything. I won’t go away."
I stare at him.
Who is this man??
Where is the shy, soft-spoken Rava I used to torture for sport?
Who swapped him out for the cold, confident version?
It feels illegal. Like I’m witnessing some forbidden version of him I’m not supposed to unlock.
He’s changed. So fucking much.
It’s honestly a little terrifying.
I hope tonight I manage to crack that ice you’re carrying around, Ravioli.
Because damn. You’re freezing, man.
I toss him the second helmet. He catches it and starts putting it on. That’s when I see it, just as he lifts his arms to adjust the strap.
Ink.
On the back of his arm, peeking out just enough for me to see it. "…Wait. Is that a tattoo?"
"Yeah."
"You? You have a tattoo??"
He clips the helmet, shrugs. "That’s not the only one."
I actually take a step closer. "You’re shitting me."
He just raises an eyebrow.
I let out a short laugh. "Unbelievable."
"Guess we’re both full of surprises," he says coolly, then adds, "you know, like the fact that you still dress like a villain in a low-budget biker movie."
I smile so hard my cheek twitches. I reach for the chin strap and tighten his helmet for him.
We’re close. Too close. His eyes meet mine.
Jesus. They’re super green and super big.
"You remember," I say with a low voice, "when you were like seven, and you wouldn’t shut up about how much you wanted to ride my tiny motorcycle at that amusement park?"
He stares at me. "I remember," he says. "Screw you."
"Just saying. Look at you now, all grown up and finally getting your dream. Weston on wheels."
"How fast is that thing?"
"Fast fast."
"What does that mean—"
"It means you’ll scream before we even hit the good part."
I laugh, step back, and open my storage compartment. I pull out my jacket and hold it out to him.
He eyes it like it’s covered in snakes.
I sigh. "Take it. I can’t afford to pay compensation to the great Weston estate if you fly off and get road burn." He rolls his eyes but takes it. Slips it on without a word.
I swing my leg over the bike. "Get on."
He hesitates.
"What, scared?"
"No."
"Then stop staring at it like it’s a wild animal."
He climbs on behind me, awkwardly. So I turn my head slightly. "You ever been on a bike?"
He shrugs. "A couple times. Nothing special."
I smirk. "That’s because you haven’t been on mine yet," I say while putting my gloves on. "The last guy who rode with me said it was the best he ever had."
He doesn’t answer. But his silence is loud.
I rev the engine. I feel him shift. "Hold on," I say.
"I’m fine."
"Rava," I mutter, "hold on."
"I said I’m—"
I reach back, grab his wrists, and pull them to my waist. Clip his hands together like a seatbelt.
"God, you’re so fucking stubborn," I mutter. And then we’re off.
The road flies past in streaks of gold and black. The city lights blur. This is fucking living. I feel him tighten behind me. His arms lock just a bit more around my waist.
We hit a long stretch of open road and I open the throttle just enough to make it interesting. His hands don’t let go. And then, at a red light, two other bikes pull up beside us.
Older, bigger guys, with loud engines, the sexy type, and loud music.
Wait... I know these guys!
One of them nods at me. "Yo, Gio."
"Hey," I call back casually. Rava leans close. "Who the hell are they?"
I grin. "Just a couple guys I race with sometimes."
He goes quiet. I don’t turn around, but I swear I can feel the judgment radiating through the helmet.
I laugh. "They’re not murderers, Rava. I promise. You’re safe."