Chapter Eighteen Vehicle of Death
eighteen
Vehicle of Death
Instantly, the mood changes. So much for having a good time. Everett orders his football buddies to break the party up, and they spring to action, ushering everyone out. Even so, it’s like herding cats, with buzzed people lingering about, confused as to why the party’s over so soon.
I linger too, not knowing what to do.
My father. My father destroyed their family. Killed their mother.
My gaze shifts to the TV, where the photos of his victims are now superimposed on the screen. Which one was she? There’s no one with the last name James. I scan the photos. Not Anabel White. Not Lydia Singh.
One face snags my attention. A beautiful brunette. Leah Devereaux. She was Dad’s last victim. His last “official” one, anyway. Nobody ever likes to count my mother.
Scrutinizing Leah’s photo, I begin to see the resemblance to her children. The light blue eyes. The dimples.
“Time to go,” I hear one of Everett’s teammates snap, pushing someone down the hallway.
The crowd starts to thin out as I stand there, frozen in the doorway of the den, watching Nikki cry and rock back and forth, having a total meltdown. Everett is hugging her, trying to console her. He doesn’t look at me. I’m forgotten.
That is, until Nikki spots me at the door, her tear-streaked face twisting into a scowl.
“What the hell? Stop gawking at me, you freak. Get out,” she snarls.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. Everett only briefly glances up, his face unreadable as he tends to his hysterical sister.
Turning away, I rush to the back of the house. A couple of football players are directing traffic toward the street, telling people to leave. I skirt around them, roaming the backyard, hoping to find my cousins. But I don’t see them anywhere. I don’t see Kabir either.
I stop in front of Bo, the wide receiver Jasmine was flirting with earlier. “Hi. Did you see Jasmine or Kab—”
“They left,” he tells me. “And you need to go too.”
Great. I’m pretty sure Everett has his hands too full to give me a ride, and it’s not like I know a lot of other people.
I wander out to the front of the house, hoping some stranger will take pity on me.
When we arrived, cars were parked all over the front lawn and on the road, but now the place is cleared out.
I grab my phone and call Maggie, but it rings to voicemail. Same for Dan. I text Jasmine, then Connor, and am greeted with radio silence.
Perfect. I’m going to have to walk home.
A weary feeling weakens my limbs. Doesn’t matter that I wore my combat boots tonight, boots that’re made for walking. After the news that just knocked the wind out of me, I’m so exhausted, physically and emotionally, I might actually collapse onto the ground.
Halfway down the driveway, a rough voice calls to me from the darkness.
“Hey.”
I whirl and find a motorcycle parked near the trees, the chrome parts glistening slightly in the moonlight.
Then I see Chase, all in black. He emerges from the trees, his eyes shadowed and predatory, focused on me. Slow and calculating, he all but swaggers out of the darkness like he owns it.
Great. As if I don’t feel hated enough. “Hey,” I mutter.
He steps up onto the driveway. “What are you doing out here all alone? Thought you’d be with Everett.”
“He and Nikki are dealing with some…stuff. So I’m heading home.”
I turn to continue my walk, the long journey stretching out before me. The ride to Everett’s house had been about fifteen minutes. What would that be, walking? At least an hour. Maybe two.
“You’d better not walk.”
I turn again, only to find him directly behind me. Uncomfortably close.
He motions, just barely, with his chin. “These roads are dark and narrow. A car comes by and doesn’t see you…”
I stare at him, waiting for more. I thought he’d be happy if that was my fate, considering he always looks at me like he wants to kill me.
“My ride left,” I say flatly. “So I have no choice.”
“Sure you do.” He hooks a thumb behind him. “Hop on.”
“No, that’s all—”
“Get the hell on, Ryan.” His voice is not any louder, but it’s certainly more authoritative. It stops me at once.
Then I frown. “Don’t tell me what to do. I don’t want to ride on your vehicle of death. So thank you, but no thank you.”
I take another step away from him, and then another. Just when I think he’s going to let me go, I hear, “Vehicle of death?” He sounds amused.
“Motorcyclists are twenty-nine times more likely to die in a motor vehicle accident,” I recite, feeling more embarrassed the more I speak. Where did I get that statistic? I don’t even know if it’s true.
His eyebrow quirks up. “All right. But what’s life without risk?”
“Safe?”
“Dull,” he counters. “And you don’t want to be that. Come on.”
I hesitate. It’s a long walk. If I accept this ride with him, I can be snuggled in my bed in twenty minutes. “Fine.” I march to the bike and glare at it. “How do I get on?”
He strides over. “Chill for a second.” He grabs the helmet and hands it to me. “Put this on.”
“What about you?” I protest. “You need a helmet too.”
“I’ll be fine. Just put it on.”
With a bit of reluctance, I take his helmet and slip it over my head.
It smells of sandalwood and something manly, like motor oil.
I feel ridiculous in it. Chase straddles the bike and shifts forward on the seat, then stands up to jump on the starter.
It roars to life, so loud that the fillings rattle in my teeth.
I try to ignore the way my heart thrums when he looks at me, his golden hair falling in his face.
“Climb on,” he says, his voice gruff. “Behind me.”
I realize there’s no way to avoid getting extremely close. There isn’t much space between the back of the bike and him. I don’t want to fall off the seat, so that means I’ll be gripping him for dear life.
I lightly skim my hands on his hips and try not to let my inner thighs touch him too much. Good. Fine.
But then he takes off so fast that I wrap my hands around him, knotting them over his chest and pressing myself entirely against his back like I’m a part of his body. I bury my face between his shoulder blades and let out a shriek.
“You okay?” he calls as he makes a turn.
I clench my teeth, certain I’m going to end up a spot on the pavement. Even so, he smells nice. Like soap and that woodsy aftershave. It’s probably the last nice thing I’ll ever experience in this world.
“Hey, you know. You can let me breathe,” he drawls over the whoosh of the wind around us.
Yeah. I’m gripping him too tight, as evidenced by the fact that my fingers are starting to hurt. Once I get more comfortable, I slowly release my clenched hands and pull my face away from his back.
Actually, it’s not so bad. It reminds me of the first time I learned to ride a bike, that freedom, my father proudly applauding behind me as I took off away from him.
My father.
He hung himself tonight.
He’s dead.
I swallow the knot in my throat and push away the reminders.
The last thing I need now is to have a breakdown of my own, in front of Chase.
He already doesn’t like me. I concentrate on pulling the cool night air through my lungs and on the roller-coaster-like thrill of the ride.
By the time we near my house, I’m a little sad it’s over.
“Wait. Stop here,” I order when he’s about to pull into the long driveway.
Chase puts his feet down and idles there. “Why?”
I point at the engine as I slide off the seat. “Too loud. You’ll wake my aunt and uncle.”
He cuts it. The sudden silence is almost shocking. There isn’t even the sound of crickets. “Better?”
I nod, take off the helmet, and hand it to him. “Thanks for the ride.” I turn to leave, but my feet won’t go. And it’s probably because my father is dead and I have other things that matter more, that I find the courage to ask, “Why don’t you like me?”
“Who said I didn’t?”
“I just get the sense you hate me.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then he pulls the helmet over his head and says, “I don’t trust you. That’s all. I don’t like the way you look at Everett.”
It never occurred to me that I look at Everett any different than I look at anyone else. “What do you mean? In what way?”
“Like you’re going to hurt him,” he says, kick-starting the engine. It rips through the night, and then he does a quick U-turn, and the lights of his bike disappear among the trees.
I swallow as I walk up the driveway, thinking about Chase’s words. He dislikes me because he thinks I’m going to hurt Everett?
Joke’s on him. I’m not going to hurt Everett.
I already have.