Chapter 8 RYDER
EIGHT
ryder
The shower turns out to be a big mistake.
Standing under the hot spray, I scrub the blood from my knuckles and try to forget how Noia was looking at me—like she wanted me to devour her body and soul.
Every drop of water hitting my skin reminds me of how her tongue felt dancing with mine outside the bar.
Fuck.
I lean my forehead against the tile wall and let the water beat against my shoulders.
This isn’t how any of this was supposed to happen.
I’m supposed to be helping her so she can finish the book, so I can get back to my world, my story, my life—or whatever the hell you want to call it—I’m not even sure what to call it anymore.
But when a memory hits of how her body felt pressed against mine on the dance floor, and the way she kissed me like her life depended on it—those are the moments when I feel like I might not want to go back.
Which is insane, of course.
Supposably, I’m a fictional character who somehow got yanked into this reality by my creator. There’s no way something this bat-shit crazy can last forever. Hell, it probably won’t even last another week without some sort of cosmic consequence we don’t even know about yet.
But Christ on a cracker, the way she looked tonight. The red top I chose sliding off her shoulder, black jeans hugging every curve, the fire in her eyes when she smashed a glass over that asshole’s head...
I’ve never wanted anyone more.
The water beats against my back and I brace my hands against the tile wall, letting the heat work out the knots. The fight tonight was nothing, just a few bruises and a split lip. I’ve had much worse.
What’s eating at me is the way Noia looked when that asshole grabbed her. The flash of fear in her eyes before it turned to fury. The way she stepped up and fought back. Fought for me.
Fuck me, that was hot.
I’m a guy who knows how to read between the lines. And right now, Noia is screaming everything she’s not saying with just her body language. The way she fidgets with her sleeves. How she keeps glancing at me when she thinks I’m not looking. The way her breathing gets shallow every time I get close.
She wants me. And as much as I want her, too—I don’t know if I should do anything about it.
Not yet, at least.
I shut the water off, grab a towel and wrap it around my waist. Bruised and battered, my reflection grins back at me in the foggy mirror like a fucking idiot.
Something shifted between us tonight. That kiss? It wasn’t just the adrenaline talking. That was real—raw—and all I’ve wanted since I first saw her passed out on her desk the night I showed up.
When I open the bathroom door, I find a pair of sweats and an old faded T-shirt with the comforting scent of fabric softener laid out on the guest bed.
I pull them on and walk back into the living room, where I find her curled up on the couch with her laptop.
Having changed into flannel pajama pants covered in tiny cats and an oversized T-shirt, she’s typing furiously, hair twisted up in a messy bun held together by a pencil, glasses perched on her nose.
I sit down beside her. “Whatcha writing?”
She gestures at the screen. “I’m trying to figure out what happens next.”
I peek over her shoulder. The title reads ‘Chapter 8’ but the page is mostly blank except for a few false starts.
“What’s the problem?”
“I don’t know how to write you anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
Finally, she glances at me, and I can see the exhaustion in her eyes before something vulnerable flickers across her face and she looks away. “When I wrote about you before, it was all fantasy. I could control everything—what you said, what you did, how you made the heroine feel.”
“And now?”
“Now you’re here, making your own decisions, saying things I’ve never even thought about writing.” She closes the laptop with a soft click. “It’s confusing and scary.”
I reach over and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Visibly shivering at the contact, she doesn’t pull away.
“Scary isn’t always bad,” I murmur.
“Says the man who started a bar fight.”
“Says the woman who finished it.”
That earns me a small smile, and something loosens in my chest.
“How do you feel?”
Her question throws me off. “About what?”
“I mean, you’ve gotta be pretty pissed about being pulled away from everything you know.”
I sit back and consider her question. It’s the first time she’s actually asked me how I feel about being ripped from my world and dropped into hers like some sort of cosmic joke.
“Honestly?” I run a hand through my damp hair. “I should be furious. But the weird thing is... now I’m not sure I had much of a life to be pulled away from.”
She frowns, turning to face me fully. “Explain.”
“I keep trying to remember what I was doing before I ended up here. What my apartment looked like, what I ate for breakfast, who I talked to.” I shake my head. “It’s all fuzzy. Like trying to remember a dream after you wake up.”
“That’s because I haven’t written those parts,” she says softly. “Your backstory is mostly trauma and angst. I haven’t gotten around to the mundane details yet.”
“So what you’re telling me is that my entire existence was basically one long, dramatic monologue punctuated by motorcycle rides and a brooding attitude?”
She winces. “Well, when you put that way…”
“Kitten, it sounds like I was one leather jacket away from being a walking cliché.” I grin at her horrified expression. “But you know what I’m not mad about? Tonight. The bar, the fight, that fucking kiss...” I lean closer. “It felt real. More real than anything I can remember.”
Her cheeks flush a beautiful shade of pink. “Ryder...”
“I’m not done.” I reach for her hand and thread our fingers together. “You want to know how I feel? I feel alive. For the first time since I can remember, I feel like I’m actually living instead of just existing on a page.”
“But what happens when the story ends? When I figure out how to send you back?”
“Maybe that’s not the right question.”
She looks away and I reach over and tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet my eyes. “Maybe the right question is: What if you don’t want to send me back?”
Her breath catches. “That’s not... I can’t just...”
“Can’t what? Be happy?” My thumb traces the line of her jaw. “When was the last time you felt this alive, Noia? The last time someone made you laugh? Made you feel beautiful? Made you feel like you had to smash a glass over some asshole’s head for them?”
“You’re not real,” she whispers.
“I’m real enough to kiss you. Real enough to fight for you. Real enough to fall for you.” The words slip out before I can stop them, hanging heavy in the air between us. “And hopefully, sometime very soon, real enough to fuck you.”
“No.” She pulls her hand from mine.
I try to reach for her again, but she shoves my hands away and pushes herself up from the couch. “I think it’s time for me to go to bed. Alone. Maybe when I wake up in the morning, this will all have been just a crazy dream.”
For some reason, her words hit me hard and when her face falls, the vulnerability in her eyes makes my chest ache.
“Noia—”
“Good night, Ryder.”