Chapter 11 Evie
I’ve found out my trick to happily living this lifestyle is knowing when to kill and when to cry.
For me, Thursdays are for crying.
Thursdays were my day to hide away in my room with M&M’s and popcorn and watch the next rom-com on my list.
The ritual of curling up with my softest blanket and watching cheesy romance movies had become a staple on my weekly to-do list. One day, I had left on The Notebook while I worked and ended up ugly crying, only to find myself more confident and murderous the next day.
It was like I’d wrung every fragile part of myself dry in advance, so when the darker things came, I didn’t feel them at all.
Overall, it did wonders for my life and I haven’t skipped a week since.
I pulled the blanket up to my chin, my eyes getting watery as the movie hit some ridiculously sappy line about love being everything. I didn’t even know who came up with this stuff, as if it would happen in real life? What was worse was that I didn’t even know how I fell for it every single time.
As if this type of love ever held up in the real world. But maybe that was the point of doing this—if I could fall apart over fake love, I didn’t have to waste tears on the things that actually hurt.
They played through the part of him always loving her, and before they even finished the big declaration of love, I was fully sobbing.
Through my tears I didn’t even notice someone in my room before it was too late.
Aiden stood at the end of my bed, slack-jawed, looking at me in horror.
I think he would have been happier to walk in here and see me committing murder than in a pile of blankets and food on my bed uncontrollably sobbing at love.
“What are you doing in my room?” I yelled, trying to move the food off my lap. “I locked the door!”
“What am I doing in here? What the hell are you doing in here?” he asked, his voice stuck somewhere between shock and laughter. “And no, you didn’t.”
I scrubbed my face with the blanket, like maybe if he didn’t see the tear streaks, I could pretend they never happened. “If you say a word about this,” I snapped, “I will personally put a wrench through your skull.”
Aiden blinked once, then leaned his shoulder against my dresser like he had every right to stay in here. “Relax, Psycho. I didn’t know witnessing you commit emotional manslaughter was a crime. Can I still call you Psycho? Or does this make you more of a psycho?”
“Get. Out.” I shoved the bowl of popcorn off my lap and nearly dumped it on the floor, shattering any chance I had at intimidating him.
Instead of leaving, he dragged my desk chair closer and sat back, crossing his arms over his chest as he glanced at the TV. “So what’s on tonight? Star-crossed lovers? Childhood friends to soulmates? Or two idiots who should’ve broken up an hour ago?”
I glared so hard my eyes hurt. “Shut up, Aiden. This information does not leave this room, or so help me—”
“Or so help you’ll cry harder?” He leaned forward, grinning.
“Because honestly, I think this is adorable. You, in a fortress of blankets and snacks, weeping over people who don’t exist?
Priceless. For someone who claims love is a scam, you’re crying like it’s your full-time job. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”
My stomach twisted. He wasn’t supposed to see this, and he definitely wasn’t supposed to look at me like that. I narrowed my eyes, forcing my voice steady. “If you value your teeth, you’ll get out right now.”
I launched the other pillow at his head, wishing it had enough force to wipe his smug grin off. He ducked, laughing, the sound crawling under my skin.
There were a few things I didn’t want Aiden to know about me.
One was, of course, that I had any crush on him ever.
Two, was that one time I knocked his bike over and left a dent—a dent that he accused Hero of for a week.
And three, that I secretly loved romance movies and would sit in my room every week crying my eyes out at them.
“You’re impossible,” I hissed, pointing at the door. “Out. Now. Or I’m upgrading from pillow to blunt force trauma.”
Aiden raised both hands like I’d pulled a weapon. “Fine, fine.” He stood, his smile still firmly intact. “But for the record—next time, pick a movie where the guy actually deserves her. At least then the tears would be justified.”
Before I could throw the popcorn bowl at him, he slipped out, shutting the door behind him.
The silence that followed was deafening.
I collapsed back into my fortress of blankets, shoving the bowl away and dragging the covers over my head like they could erase the fact he’d been here at all.
My cheeks still burned, my chest still tight—not from the movie anymore, but from the fact that he had seen me crying like a bubbling idiot.
I muttered every creative death threat I knew under my breath until I ran out of air. None of them helped. My heart was still pounding, traitorous and alive, and the worst part was a small, stupid part of me wished that he stayed.
I stared up at the ceiling, eyes wide and furious at myself. The movie droned on in the background, but I couldn’t watch it. The only thing worse than crying over love was the man you were blackmailing seeing you bawl your eyes out at love.
Hopefully, Aiden wouldn’t realize the blackmail he now had against me.
The next morning went to hell almost immediately and somehow I found myself standing in front of my motorcycle in a shirt that wasn’t mine, racing to get to the garage because the guys were blowing up my phone already, needing things done.
My night hadn’t exactly gone to plan and I slept in long past the time I usually did.
Aiden walking in on me mid–rom-com breakdown might’ve had something to do with that. It was hard to bounce back after you’d been caught red-eyed and snot-nosed with popcorn stuck to your shirt.
My gaze landed on the small, ice-blue bike. I sighed, out of options. “Fine, listen here, you little Ice Weasel—I’m riding you today, and I swear, if you act up, I’m leaving you in a ditch.”
It wasn’t riding I hated—I loved it. What I hated was how bad I was at it.
And not in an adorable, oops-I’m-clumsy way. More in a catastrophic, should-not-be-trusted-with-machinery way.
Slow turns were my natural enemy—maybe any turn is more accurate.
Which was why Ice Weasel spent most of its existence tucked away in the garage—where it was safe from me, and I was safe from it.
Still, desperate times.
I slid onto the bike, started it up, and—miraculously—it came to life immediately.
The drive into town was tense. I wasn’t sure if it was more tense from me driving the bike or knowing I was about to face Aiden again. It became so tense my knuckles were turning white and I wasn’t sure I could make it much longer.
The moment I eased Ice Weasel onto the main street of Havenwood, I realized I’d underestimated both the bike and myself.
Every little crack in the pavement made my stomach lurch, every bump sent a twitch up through the handlebars, and my hands were slick with sweat before I’d even made it past the first corner.
“Okay, calm down, Ice Weasel,” I muttered, voice low, deadly serious.
“We can do this. I need you to behave for ten minutes. Ten. That’s all I ask. No drama. No near-death experiences.”
A sharp turn around a corner appeared too quickly, and I leaned a little too far.
My left foot slipped, scraping along the pavement.
Luckily, Aiden had seen this coming and installed crash bars on my bike.
My stomach was in my throat as the bike crashed onto the bars.
I cursed under my breath. “Fantastic. Absolutely perfect. This is exactly how people end up on those fail pages online.”
Then I noticed him—a man reaching right toward me. At first, I thought he was going to grab the bike, but he came at my waist instead. Panic sparked, and somewhere between adrenaline and my reflexive need not to die, I pulled my knife from the holster on my thigh.
Time slowed. His hand lingered too long, and I jabbed it with precision—not hard enough to be fatal, but enough to elicit a high-pitched, startled howl.
I wasn’t going to take any chances when I knew damn well what type of men were after us.
“What the fuck?” He stepped back, eyes still locked on me.
“That’s exactly what I was going to say. You don’t reach out and grab random women!”
His eyes widened, shock reverberating off him. “I was only trying to help you!”
I rarely felt bad for stabbing people—if anything, more people deserved a light stabbing—especially if they reached out to grab random women any chance they got. Plus, my little cry session was really working already. I felt as psycho and deadly as ever.
Five excruciatingly tense minutes later, I pulled up behind the garage. For the first time in years, I’d made it nearly the entire trip without anything catastrophic—except for a minor foot slip and an overenthusiastic helper who now has a little knife wound.
Small victories, right?
But the world wasn’t going to be kind enough to me to leave it at that—seconds passed before the kickstand gave out, the bike crashing onto its side again. The bars took the worst of the hit, but it didn’t go down gracefully.
“What the hell?” I hissed, kicking the seat once for emphasis. “This is why I hate you.”
Aiden walked up to the garage like he owned the place—which, to be fair, he kind of did—wearing a plain black T-shirt and jeans that should not have been that effective, and yet, here we were. The backward cap sat low on his dark blond hair, making him look unfairly hot.
Un-fucking-believable.
He let his gaze travel from the fallen bike, to me, and back to the bike.
Then his mouth curved into that smug, insufferable smile that made me want to set things on fire.
“Damn, Psycho.” He tilted his head, mock sympathy dripping from his voice. “Looks like the bike finally decided it was done with you, too.”