Chapter Eight
Jett
The gym’s dead quiet. Friday nights swing both ways, either packed with sadists or emptied out like a crime scene. Tonight, even the die-hards have limped home to ice their knees and cry into overpriced protein sludge.
I try not to think of her as I cross the lot. Try not to remember the glitter-gloss curve of her mouth when she said “training,” like she meant sex, violence, or both and wanted then confused.
But then I see my bike.
And the goddamn saddlebag is open.
I slow down. Heart already punching behind my ribs. Either someone made a mistake, or I’m about to.
Someone touched my shit.
I crouch beside it. And there it is.
A little black gift bag with a pink skull on the front, trying to be cute and threatening at the same time.
Inside: Cookies. Gummy candy. A tiny can of salted cashews.
A fucking card with cartoon monsters on it that says: It’s scary how much I think of you.
And inside, in loopy, slightly manic handwriting:
Have a great weekend. Don’t hit anyone. D
There’s a kiss print on it.
I stare at it. For a long time.
The candy is her. The handwriting is her. The aggressively sincere psychotic whimsy is so her, it’s like she carved it from her own soul and drop-kicked it into my life without permission.
And now it’s in my hands.
She was here. Again. Close enough to touch my shit. Close enough to sit on my seat, probably wriggling just to see if I’d feel it in my dick.
I exhale slow and start to close the bag.
That’s when I see a faint smudge of pink gloss stamped right on the painted ribcage of the Reaper on my tank.
Right over the heart.
I freeze.
She kissed my fucking bike.
Left her mark like she owns it.
I close the bag slowly. Not because I’m calm. Because if I move too fast, I’ll do something I can’t undo.
Like track her down, drag her somewhere dark and make her say please.
Kiss her so fucking hard she forgets how to write.
Shit.
I don’t even like gummy candy.
But she got the rest right.
Thoughtful. Disturbing. Infuriating.
Hot.
Fucking hell.
She leaves me snacks like I’m a stray she’s trying to train.
But I’m not the one who’s going to beg.