Chapter 6
Becki
T he jukebox broke again. Or maybe it’s just had enough of my sad-girl playlist.
I slam my empty shot glass on the counter, barely flinching when it topples over.
"Whoops."
Cornbread, the bartender at the Fire Pit, doesn’t even look up. Everyone’s too busy dancing or dry-humping in booths, costumes half-hanging off, face paint smeared. Halloween in Hell, Kentucky. Real classy.
Legend’s across town, probably at the big party I heard about in Official with his new arm piece, Hannah, hoping he runs into the golden princess. His horse girl.
And me? I’m the trailer park ghost. Crazy Becki. The one they all whisper about. The one who will never get a ring, just the rumors.
“I gotta get outta here,” I mutter to no one, grabbing my keys from the bar and weaving past a couple of witches fighting over a cowboy.
The cool night air slaps my face like it’s judging me. Good. Let it.
My Harley’s parked out front, half-covered in leaves already. I kick it to life, engine snarling like it’s just as fed up as I am. No helmet. No plan. Just me, and the bottle of recklessness I downed an hour ago.
I ride.
Fast.
Down the road out of Hell, where the pavement turns to gravel and the trees close in like shadows with teeth. The moon’s fat and mean overhead, lighting up the path just enough to tempt me deeper into the dark.
I should turn back.
I don’t.
The trees blur past, and the wind tears at my jacket. The creek’s not far now, just past the old ridge where the cemetery begins to spill into the holler. Where he is.
I feel him again.
That prickling crawl at the back of my neck.
The masked man. My ghost.
My — Biker Boo.
It’s stupid. I should be scared. But I’m not. Not really.
Because when he stares at me from the woods, it doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels like possession. Like he sees all the parts of me I try to hide… the broken pieces, the jealousy, the fury. And he wants them anyway.
My heart races faster than the engine. I glance in my mirrors while slowing down to a crawl. Nothing.
Still…
Still…
Shit.
The tire hits a slick patch of wet leaves on the curve near the river, and I’m flying, airborne for a second, then crashing down hard, scraping my elbow as the bike topples. It skids toward the edge of the embankment, coming to rest against a rock.
I groan, pushing myself up onto my knees.
Everything spins.
“Damn it,” I whisper, shaking my head.
That’s when I hear it. A branch snapping. Footsteps. Crunching leaves. I spin around, breath catching in my throat.
“Hello?”
No answer. Just the wind.
And then… Biker Boo steps out from the woods like a nightmare stitched from smoke and shadows.
Black hoodie. Black jeans. Same horror mask — white, cracked, like porcelain horror. The sight of him blows through me like a jolt of lightning to my spine. I should scream.
I don’t.
Instead, I rise, blood sticky on my palm, jacket torn.
He stalks toward me.
Deliberate.
Silent.
Like he owns the night.
My heart beats so hard it feels like it’s going to punch through my ribs.
“Biker Boo,” I whisper, voice shaking with something that sounds too much like want.
He doesn’t speak. Just reaches for me.
I stumble backward. “What do you want?”
But I know.
God, I know.
He grabs me by the waist, lifting me like I weigh nothing, hauling me up off the dirt like some bride from a haunted fairytale.
I gasp, clinging to him. The porcelain mask is inches from my face now, a cracked scream mocking me with silence.
His breath is rough beneath it, hot and human, and I swear I feel it ghost against my mouth even through the chill.
I try to squirm, but his grip tightens. Not hurting. Just… commanding. Possessive.
“What do you want from me?” I whisper again, voice breaking.
He still doesn’t speak. Just lowers me down gently, setting me on my feet, but his hands stay. One cradles my jaw, fingers gloved but firm. The other slips to my waist, anchoring me like he thinks I might run, but I don’t. I’m too shaken. Too drunk. Too lit from the inside out.
I tip my head back, breathing him in. Sweat, smoke, leather, and pine. The woods cling to him like a second skin.
“You followed me,” I say, chest heaving.
He tilts his head slowly, like a curious animal.
“You want me,” I accuse, stepping closer now, mouth nearly brushing the mask.
It’s insane, but I’m not scared. My blood is a cocktail of tequila and twisted craving.
“I don’t even know your name,” I whisper, the words laced with a dare.
He lifts one finger and presses it to my lips.
Shhh.
I shiver.
That single touch unravels me.
I fist both hands in the front of his hoodie, yanking him forward. “Biker Boo,” I whisper. “Just… don’t stop.”
And then I kiss him. The mask.
It’s clumsy at first, hard plastic against my lips, but I don’t care. I’m tasting the danger, the anonymity. The hunger in his silence.
He responds instantly.
His hands grip my hips, pulling me flush against his bulge. I can feel him now, hard, hot, throbbing through his jeans, and a dark thrill rolls through me.
I moan against the mask, grinding my body to his, daring him to break whatever oath is keeping him from revealing himself.
He groans low and shoves me back, not away , just harder against a tree trunk. My back hits bark, breath knocked from me, and then his hands are everywhere.
My jacket falls open.
He palms my waist beneath my shirt. Then his hands move over me like a prayer.
No one’s ever touched me like this, not Legend, not any boy back in church, not even myself. Like he knows every hidden scar. Like he wants the ruined parts most.
I gasp when his mouth finds my throat. Knowing the mask has slipped, I fight the urge to try to look. With the trees overhead, it’s too dark anyhow.
“You’re real,” I pant. “You’re really here…”
He growls, the sound so deep and feral it rattles through my bones.
I can’t take it anymore. “Let me see you,” I plead, reaching up. My fingers slide slowly to the strap of the mask.
He stiffens. I feel him suck in a breath like it hurts.
I stop though it breaks me wide open. “Please…” I whisper. “I need to know…”
But the mask stays on. His hand catches mine and presses it to his chest. His heart is racing, wild, frantic. Mine too.
“I won’t tell,” I swear. “Whoever you are. I won’t ruin it.”
Still no words. Just a shake of the head.
Then his hands roam lower to my thighs, my hips, my ass, gripping me like I’m his oxygen. I hook one leg around his waist, moaning as I feel his hard length press between us. He rocks once, slow and punishing, and I cry out.
“God… don’t stop,” I beg. “Legend.”
He does.
He stops.
Cold air hits me as he backs away like I’ve burned him.
“No!” I shout, reaching for him.
But he’s already gone, vanished into the trees like a ghost.
“Damn it!”
I stumble forward, body aching with unfinished heat. My lips are swollen from Frenching plastic. My jeans are wet.
I spin in circles, trying to spot him.
Nothing.
Only the woods.
Only the silence.
Only me.
I sink to my knees, breath steaming in the night.
“Who are you?” I whisper.
Only the wind answers.
And in the distance, the creek keeps rushing past.