4. Reed
reed
. . .
Fuck.
I offered for her to stay with me like a complete idiot. But the thought of her being alone in a town she doesn’t know that well makes my stomach twist.
The second the words left my mouth, my gut clenched. I don’t do this. I don’t invite anyone into my space, into the four walls that have been nothing but silence and shadow since the accident.
I’ve secluded myself in solitude, only communicating with my brothers. Who would want to talk to a freak like me? Who would want to start a family with someone who has baggage and scars like mine that run deep?
I don’t let anyone in because people are quick to see my image, never giving me a chance to show them who I really am, who I want to be, to love someone unconditionally.
Unfortunately, people are quick to judge others based on appearance. One glance at me, and they see a man who doesn’t meet their standards.
A monster. Ugly.
I circle back to the thought that my home isn’t meant for company—it’s where I disappear, where the weight presses hardest.
But I can’t take it back. Not when she’s looking at me like that.
She looks like the sunrise I thought I’d never see again.
So fucking beautiful.
“Are you sure?” she asks, taking me out of my daze.
My throat feels tight, but I nod anyway. “Yeah,” I manage, fiddling with the glass cups underneath the bar. “It’s fine. Let me clean up here, and I’ll take you over. You can get settled and…” I clear my throat, buying time, hiding my nerves. “…if you want, we can go over your content stuff.”
Her whole face lights up with an essence of beauty that makes my heart constrict.
Her bright smile spreads quickly, effortlessly, and it’s like someone dragged the sun into this dim bar.
Her blue eyes light up, catching the glow of the Edison bulbs strung overhead.
She leans forward just slightly, her blonde hair falling over her shoulder, and I swear the Earth stops spinning off its axis for her.
I’ve seen beautiful women before, sure, but not like this.
She radiates warmth in a way that feels foreign, dangerous. Sunshine bleeding into the cracks I’ve spent years patching shut.
I grip the rag tighter, my knuckles aching as the scar tissue pulls beneath my sleeve. The itch flares sharp and unrelenting, the pain crawling up my arm. My hand stills against the counter, but my eyes don’t leave her.
I drink her in like a starving man.
The curve of her rosy cheeks where the light hits, the soft mauve gloss on her plump lips shining when she presses them together. Her lashes flutter as she glances down and then up again, catching me staring.
Her laugh bubbles out of her a second later, bright and carefree, as if she’s not afraid to take up space. Hearing her laugh? Yeah, that’s something I could listen to and never get tired of hearing.
Fuck, I’m in awe.
I’m not supposed to be. But I am.
Around us, the bar hums with leftover noise: distant laughter, the clink of a glass somewhere down the room. But it all blurs, fading into nothing.
All I see is her, standing there in front of me, smiling as if she doesn’t notice the scars on half of my face, crawling down my neck, or the glasses perched on my nose, or the way my body feels too damn tight inside my own skin.
For a moment, I allow myself to think: maybe she doesn’t notice the wreckage at first. Maybe she only sees me, and that thought terrifies me more than the fire ever did.
A few stragglers are finishing their drinks before leaving. I go through the motions of closing up; wiping down counters, stacking chairs, and ringing out the till.
My scars itch with every stretch and twist, a dull burn that sticks around no matter how many times I readjust my sleeves.
She sits perched on a stool, her duffel at her feet, as her legs swing back and forth. She’s been talking nonstop since the others left, words spilling out faster than I can keep up, but I don’t mind.
“Did you know flamingos aren’t actually born pink?” she says suddenly, propping her chin on her hand. “It’s from the shrimp they eat. Without it, they’re like this sad, gray color.”
I pause mid-wipe, arching a brow. “Flamingos.”
“Yes, flamingos!” she grins, eyes sparkling. “I saw it in a documentary. Nature is weird. Imagine being stuck with just one color because of your diet. Like, what if I ate too many Cheetos and turned orange?”
I snort. “Maverick would.”
She slaps the counter, giggling. “Oh my God, he totally would. Amelia would hate her lifeee.”
Her giggle, fuck.
I shake my head, stacking clean glasses. “She already puts up with too much.”
She leans forward, conspiratorial. “Between us, I know she secretly loves his chaos. Don’t tell her I said that.”
I glance at her, lips twitching. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
She beams, satisfied, then jumps into another tangent. “Oh! And Catalina texted me the other day about the Big Dipper, but she swears it looks like a frying pan. Can you believe that? She ruined it for me. Every time I look up now, all I see is a pan waiting for eggs.”
“Fits her,” I mutter.
She gasps, clapping a hand over her mouth. “Reed Hayes! Did you just make a joke? About your sister-in-law?”
“Don’t tell her.”
She laughs so loudly it bounces off the walls, and I can’t stop the small smile tugging at my mouth.
Her words keep tumbling out, facts about Ruby Ridge she read online, stories about filming content in LA, complaints about airport security. She talks with her hands, blue eyes wide, like she’s afraid silence will swallow her whole.
And I listen to every damn word.
Because I enjoy the sound of her voice filling the empty spaces, I like how her smile softens when she thinks I’m not looking. I even like how her engagement ring flashes in the low light, even though it feels like a punch to the ribs.
Lucky bastard. Whoever he is.
Finally, I finish counting the register and pull my keys from my back pocket, as her legs are still swinging idly, her mouth still moving a mile a minute.
I clear my throat. “Ready, Layla?”
She lights up, clapping her hands together. “Yessss!”
And just like that, she turns closing time, usually my loneliest hour, into something I don’t want to end.
I shake my head, lips twitching, and head for the door. The familiar feel of the keys jingles in my hand as I flick off the last of the lights, plunging Boots & Bourbon into darkness. The neon sign outside bleeds a burnt red through the windows, casting a faint glow over the bar.
She hops off the stool, her duffel bouncing against her hip, and skips after me. Her sneakers squeak against the floor, her energy practically vibrating.
Out on the sidewalk, the night air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. The town feels quieter now, with Ruby Ridge settling into its bones, but with her beside me, the silence doesn’t feel as heavy.
“Well,” I mumble, fishing behind the door frame where I keep the spare, “I usually never have anyone with me.” I turn and hold out the matte black helmet. “Wear this.”
Her nose wrinkles as she stares down at it. “What?”
I jerk my chin toward the curb. “This.”
She follows my gaze and gasps.
My BMW S1000RR gleams under the streetlamp, with black matte shimmering beneath the light, and a leather seat worn from years of rides that always ended with me alone.
Her hand flies to her chest, eyes wide. “Reed Hayes. You ride a motorcycle?”
“Yeah,” I say simply, pressing the helmet into her hands.
“Oh my God.” She laughs, the sound bright and bubbling. “That’s-that’s hot. I did not expect that.”
Warmth spreads up the nape of my neck. I look away, hoping she doesn’t catch me blushing, and slide on my gloves. “Put it on.”
She fumbles, her cheeks flush as she gets it settled. Then she tilts her head at me, a smile tugging at her lips. “What about you? Aren’t you supposed to wear one, too?”
I stand near my bike, my boots solid against the pavement, and meet her gaze head-on. “As long as you’re safe, that’s all that matters.”
Her grin falters, softening into something different, something that makes my chest crack. She blinks, and I really look at her, noticing the way the inner corner of her eyes swells with the faint hint of tears, but she quickly brushes that off.
Silence stretches between us, and for once, I don’t mind it as long as it’s with her.
I take her in, analyzing her as she fixes the helmet on her head.
The helmet looks too big on her as she fumbles with it. She laughs softly, trying again, hair spilling around her shoulders. Sunshine incarnate, sitting on a cracked Ruby Ridge sidewalk, making even the asphalt seem worth smiling about.
“Got it,” she announces, tugging the helmet on fully, and all I can see are her crystal blue eyes.
I don’t trust my voice, so I nod, swinging my leg over the bike, and settle onto the worn leather seat. My bike roars to life as I turn the key, vibration crawling up my arms.
Layla steps closer, tentative for the first time tonight.
I glance over at her, steadying myself as I reach out my hand. She hesitates before grabbing mine. Once our hands touch, it feels like her hands were always meant to be intertwined with mine.
She swings her leg across, climbing onto the back of me. The duffel rests awkwardly between us until she adjusts, pressing closer.
Letting go of my hand, she readjusts until both her arms wrap around my waist.
The air leaves my lungs all at once. My scars flare under my flannel, but the warmth of her touch cuts through it. Her chest presses against my back, her legs bracketing mine, and I swear I can feel her heartbeat pounding through both of us.
She leans in close, her helmet brushing against the back of my shoulder. “Okay, Reeed,” she yells, mumbling over the rumble, “don’t kill me, alright?”
The laugh that escapes me is quiet, buried in the roar of the engine. “You’ll be fine.”
She gasps dramatically. “Fine? That’s not very reassuring!”
I can’t help it, I smirk as I twist the throttle, the bike growling low. “Hold on tight.”
The tires grip the pavement as we move forward, the night air rushing cold against my face. Her grip tightens instantly, her arms wrap around me as her body presses close to mine.
Cool wind whips, tugging at her laughter when it escapes, muffled through the helmet but loud enough to wrap around me. She points at the stars with her hand before clutching me tighter again, squealing when I take a curve.
Every bump in the road pulls at my scars, pain erupting in jagged lines. But I barely notice, not when she’s holding onto me like I’m the only steady thing in the world.
Her head rests briefly against my back, and it unravels me. The weight I’ve carried for years feels just a little lighter, like she siphons some of it away without even realizing.
I shouldn’t let myself think it, but I do.
She’s sunshine in my darkness.
And for the first time in a long time, the ride doesn’t feel lonely.