21. Sydney
twenty-one
sydney
Oliver Ruiz has a motorcycle.
He passes me a helmet and watches passively as I struggle to get it buckled under my chin. He got his on in record time, and he straddles the seat with a comfortability that is, quite frankly, shocking.
I’m already regretting choosing his option instead of Penn’s.
“Sometime tonight, Sydney.”
My eyebrows hike up. “I think that’s the first time you’ve said my name.”
“At least this month,” he allows. “I’m sure I’ve used it before.”
“Okay, it’s the first time you’ve said it without looking like you’re chewing glass.”
He snickers, but it only lasts a few seconds. “Get on.”
I carefully swing my leg over. I don’t want to touch him. But he glances back and shakes his head. He grips my legs, fingers catching the backs of my knees, and drags me forward. I collide with his back, my helmet bouncing off his.
But he’s not done rearranging me. He points to where I should put my feet, then takes my wrists and wraps them around him.
Yeah, not exactly the best idea.
I clench my jaw.
His whole body moves when he kick-starts the bike, the engine roaring beneath us.
I admit; I momentarily forget who’s in front of me and squeeze him, alarm shooting up my spine. I feel more than hear his laugh, and everything in me tenses when we bolt forward.
The first five minutes are pure terror. My eyes are screwed shut, my fingers immediately go numb from the cold air whipping at us. He leans with each turn, forcing me to either lean with him or separate.
“Open your eyes,” he calls.
I do.
We’re heading for the bridge. It’s ahead of us, lit in warm lights. The dark water sparkles on either side of the road. His body radiates heat, which is directly at odds with the wind chill.
Fifteen minutes later, and a whole county over from Framingham, and Oliver turns down a quaint main street strip. The buildings that line it are close enough to touch. Cafés, clothing shops, a pet supply store. Three-quarters down, we slow to a coast and park in front of a blacked-out storefront.
The sign above it says: Ruiz Rage .
My brows furrow.
Oliver taps my thigh, and I climb off. My legs wobble, knees weak, and I stumble away from the evil bike—and the devil who rides it. I fumble with the clasp on the helmet. He undoes his and watches me for a moment. He seems to decide that a moment is all it’s worth, because he approaches and knocks away my hands.
He undoes the helmet’s buckle and lifts it off my head. I shake out my hair, finger-combing through the snarls.
Since Penn isn’t here, I pull it over my shoulder and braid it.
While Oliver just… stares.
“Maybe you should take a picture,” I say. “It’ll last longer.”
He smiles. “I have a picture.”
My expression drops.
“Let’s go.” He heads for the building.
We enter, a bell above the door announcing our entrance. We’re in a waiting room of sorts. It seems warm and cozy, the walls a rustic orange and covered in framed photos, the rug patterned in oranges, reds, and bright blues. There’s a counter straight ahead, and the door off to the left of it opens.
An older woman comes out.
“Gabriel!” she exclaims. “ Hace tanto tiempo que no te veo, mi ni?o. ”
When she cups his face, he bends for her to kiss both cheeks.
“Hi, Abuelita . This is my friend, Sydney.” He glances at me, and there’s a very clear warning there. “Sydney, this is my abuela, Juana Ruiz.”
Her black hair has streaks of gray in it, but her face is nearly wrinkle-free. Except when she smiles—she smiles with her whole face. Unfortunately, she doesn’t smile at me. Her gaze turns more to worry.
“You’re bringing a girl here, Gabriel? This isn’t date material.” Her Spanish accent is very thick, and she eyes me like I might attack her . But I don’t even know what we’re doing, so I keep my mouth shut.
He lifts one shoulder. “I think she could benefit from it.”
His abuela tsks. “If you insist. Room three. I have paperwork to complete. Come see me before you leave.”
“Why does she call you Gabriel?” I ask him once she’s gone.
He smiles. A nice one. It’s directed at his abuela, obviously, not me. I’ll be damned if he ever smiles at me like that. Seems to be a similar sentiment between them, although he doesn’t act bothered by her cold demeanor.
“It’s my middle name,” he says. “Mom is white. Dad is first generation Mexican American. My parents agreed to name me Oliver because it was her father’s name, so he chose my middle name. My dad’s side of the family mostly calls me Gabriel, but Abue set the tone for it early.”
“Got it.”
Oliver Gabriel Ruiz. There’s no L there, unless we count the two in his first and middle names. I don’t think that’s enough to entirely clear him of being L., but… Stop thinking about him.
He leads the way through the door his abuela came through. The hallway is wide, and there’s a long row of shelving on the right. He goes to it and plucks items from cubbies, handing me first a hard hat, then a pair of safety goggles. He moves farther down, taking an apron made of thicker rubber off a rack. He hooks one over his neck, then passes me the other.
“I don’t really understand what’s going on.” I tie the apron at the small of my back.
We go to the third door on the left. It has a white light on over it, unlike the others. Their lights are off. One is red.
He opens the door and ushers me in, his hand briefly touching my back.
I scoot in quick.
The room is… a kitchen? Minus the sink and appliances. The cabinets have no doors, but there are stacks of plates and glassware on every shelf. There’s also miscellaneous stuff: picture frames lining the counter, a collection of vases filled with water and flowers.
Oliver taps me on the shoulder.
I turn.
He didn’t touch me with his hand—there’s a baseball bat in his grip, and he offers me the handle.
I take it with a silent question on my face.
“Rage rooms.” He takes a glass from one of the cabinets and throws it on the floor.
It smashes. I do my best not to flinch at the sudden noise, but I don’t think I succeed. Glass goes everywhere, and he kicks one of the larger chunks toward the wall.
“How did you feel when you realized it was me?” Oliver goads.
“Angry.”
“And when Penn said some bullshit about treating you nice?”
“Like I was going to crawl out of my skin.”
“Because it was so fucking easy to pick you up off the street and get you in the trunk,” he says. “Right? Because you didn’t know how to stop Bear from grabbing you, you didn’t react quick enough, you didn’t scream loud enough. You weren’t enough.”
“Stop it.”
He holds out a plate. “How does that make you feel, doll?”
“Frustrated.”
“ Helpless ,” he corrects, his tone biting. “You’re so fucking helpless. That’s why you’re a doll. You run a mile or two every other day and call yourself athletic, but you have no muscles. Andi fucking Sharpe taped you down to a toilet with the help of one other person.”
He comes closer and squeezes my biceps with his free hand. To prove a point.
I knock him away and grip the bat tighter. “Stop.”
“Bear almost raped you tonight.” His gaze presses in on me. It hurts worse than a bruise. “Did you sit there like a good little girl while he tied your hands? Did you want him to fuck you?”
“Shut up.”
He holds out a plate. Taunting, offering…
“ Make me ."
I swing the bat.
It knocks the plate out of his hand, sending it crashing against the wall. I stare at it, shocked at myself. I could’ve broken his damn fingers. But he nods encouragingly, giving me a ‘come on’ hand motion.
“More,” he demands.
I smash the vases first. Flowers and water mix with the glass, the water immediately dripping down the bare counters.
He picks up a crowbar and drives it into the stack of plates closest to him. The crash is satisfying. I grin. I attack the picture frames next. They just have stock photos in them, which reminds me of home. The way everything was so superficial.
You didn’t tell anyone I took a little trip, did you, baby? It’s only for a few days; if they knew they might take you away.
You don’t want to go live with your father, right?
It was a guilt trip.
I drop the bat and pick out a plate, throwing it against the wall. Oliver hands me another one. And another.
Why do I even want to find my mother?
Your father is getting remarried, baby, she said to me when I was fifteen . I told him he couldn’t replace us. But if he’s more distant…
Why am I thinking about her?
Why am I only thinking about the bad stuff?
I was mad at Oliver for tossing me in a fucking trunk and trying to get me to admit something I know nothing about. He’s testing loyalty I don’t have or want. But somehow, that anger has been consumed by the stuff I’ve been battling to keep buried.
Maybe I’m the most upset at myself for letting all of this happen. For every moment in my life where I had a choice, and I took the wrong option.
We move on to glasses. He joins me, cracking a few. Ceramic mugs. A light fixture sitting on the table, coasters I sweep off the counter and smash with the curved end of a crowbar until it’s practically dust. I bring it down on the bottom of the upper cabinets, cracking the wood. Over and over again until my muscles tremble.
I don’t realize I’m crying until there’s nothing left to break but myself.
“Good,” he says.
I drop the crowbar. It clatters against the glass and ceramic that litter the floor. He helps me pick a path to the door. At the shelving in the hall, I take off the hat and glasses, untie the apron, and hang it on the hook.
I run my hands through my hair and down my face.
“I’m going to say goodbye,” he says quietly. “You can go out into the lobby, just wait for me there.”
I walk out without a backward glance. Standing in the center of the room, which is so warm and alive compared to the cold, sterile rage room we were in.
The hollow sensation in my chest is new. New and strange. I rub at my sternum. When Oliver doesn’t immediately appear, I drift toward the far wall.
There are groups of smiling people in the middle of different rage rooms. Some are bigger, some small and simple like the one we were in. There’s a huge room that a large party stands in the center of that even has a few cars parked in the open space.
Why do they seem happy, though?
I keep moving along the wall, taking in the smiles and finding myself slipping into numbness.
“Sydney?” Oliver stops beside me. “Ready?”
“Yeah.” Ready for something, I don’t know what. “I thought that would make me feel better.”
He eyes me. “But?”
“I just feel empty.”
“Ah.”
We go outside. This time, he puts the helmet on my head and buckles it under my chin, his knuckles brushing my skin. I shiver, but it’s definitely the cold air and not his touch that does it.
Back on the bike, arms cinched around his abdomen, I rather expect him to take me straight home.
Nope.
He pulls into the driveway of his house.
I don’t have a reaction, though. I don’t really know why we’re here unless he’s going to be mean again. I just follow him up the walkway and into the house.
It’s all familiar. It shouldn’t be, but… I know where everything is because I scouted it out and I was merciless about it. He toes off his shoes and disappears down the hall into the kitchen. I stand in the doorway for a long moment, then ultimately do the same and follow.
He sets a small pot of milk on the stove and leans against the counter beside it.
“From threatening to return me to Penn all bloody and bruised to… what are you making? Mac ‘n cheese?”
“I was going for hot chocolate.”
“Whatever you’re making is fine,” I murmur. “What a weird fucking day.”
“Yeah?”
“Obviously.”
He doesn’t have a reply to that.
I take a seat at the table. Penn still has my phone, so there’s no distractions. The clock on the wall ticks loudly in the quiet. There’s just our breathing and the slight crackle of the flame under the pot.
I open and close my mouth, but any thought on what to actually say to him has evaporated.
Trusting Ruiz is a bad idea. Such a fucking bad idea.
“My playbook is upstairs if you want to go sneak more pictures,” he says.
See?
I push back from the table and go upstairs. Not that I have my phone. Or anything, for that matter. Not that he seems to know any differently. I head straight upstairs to that room that had it last time. It’s in a drawer this time, but it takes me no time at all to find it.
I cradle it to my chest and go back downstairs.
“Hey,” I bark.
He turns.
I chuck his playbook at him. He catches it— of course he fucking does —and squints at me.
“You were an ass.”
He doesn’t reply.
“You were an ass,” I say, louder. “That night on the beach? I don’t know why I took pictures of the playbook, but I did. I wasn’t going to share them, though, until you suggested Carter used me for them. ‘Sending sluts to distract us is a tired trick.’”
He turns back to the small pot on the stove, turning off the burner.
“You could’ve just left it alone,” I continue, “and those photos would’ve rotted on my phone.”
He sets the playbook aside and lifts the pot from the stove. “You can tell yourself that.”
“What?”
“You say that’s what you’re going to do. But what if something else happened? What if Masters sweet talked you, or kissed you, or you remembered that you have more loyalty?—”
“You took care of any loyalty issues,” I shoot back.
“Did I?”
He pours the hot chocolate into two mugs and stirs while I stand here like a fucking idiot. My face flames, and I can’t…
I don’t know what to say to that. Didn’t I just prove myself to him? In the face of torture or whatever they were threatening. Violence. Pain. I said nothing.
There was nothing to say .
He brings the mugs to the table and sits across from my chosen seat.
I slowly inch back into the kitchen and join him. I wrap my hands around the warm, dark-green mug. He does the same to his baby blue one.
“Why were you in my house, then?” He eyes me. “I caught you. There aren’t many excuses?—”
“It’s because you have a family heirloom of mine,” I blurt out. I press my lips together and turn away. I shouldn’t have fucking said that. I didn’t mean to say it. “Not that I expect you to do anything about it now , but I was searching for it that night.”
Admitting to him why I was here seems foolhardy. He can use this against me in any way he sees fit.
“Sydney, look at me.”
I cannot and will not subject myself to that.
He waits.
Finally, I glance his way.
“Explain.”
“No.”
His gaze hardens. “Then I’ll just have to assume it’s some elaborate lie.”
I plant my hands on the table, suddenly mad again. So much for being numb.
“Okay, fine,” I snap. “Cards on the table. If you use this against me, I will make sure you never play professional hockey.”
He inclines his chin.
“It’s a vintage gold bracelet inset with engravings and pearls. On the inside it has a quote.”
“And how did I end up with it?”
“My mother likes money more than family history.” That hurts to admit. “I got out of her where she sold it and went to the pawnshop. I pleaded with the owner until he gave me your name.”
“My name. She sold it here?”
I frown. “She said it was when she came up to visit for Thanksgiving last year. Apparently, she was going to give it to me and then decided to sell it instead. He said he sold it to Oliver Ruiz. And since you said earlier that you’re named after your grandfather on your mom’s side, I have to think you’re the only one local.”
“I did buy a bracelet like that,” he says.
I open my mouth, but he keeps going.
“I gave it to my mother for her fiftieth birthday.”
I don’t… I don’t know what to do with that.
My expression must be a mixture of shock and hurt, but I can’t seem to wrestle my feelings back under control. While my mother has been rather frivolous with our family history, only managing to hold on to that piece because I was in love with it and the history attached to it, I crave it.
I need to know everything about where I came from in order to figure out myself. Right? That’s how it works. Because otherwise, I have no idea who I am.
“Sydney,” he whispers. “I’m?—”
I shake my head. “I can’t talk about this anymore.”
I sip the cocoa. It’s spiced with flavors I’ve never tasted in it before, but it’s good. It seems to warm me from the inside out, and for once, that’s not an effect of alcohol.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes.”
His expression falls. “Finish it and I’ll take you home.”