Chapter 10 Miles
Miles
I sit there with the engine humming low, the drizzle smearing against the windshield, and I can’t take my eyes off her.
Chloe disappears into the building, her damp hair swinging loose, my jacket still clinging to her shoulders like I branded her with it.
The image sears into me. The way she looked at me before I kissed her.
The way she kissed me back. The way she bit me.
Something is definitely wrong with me.
I drag my tongue over my bottom lip, pressing against the cut she left there.
It stings, metallic and raw, the faint taste of blood still lingering.
And beneath it is the sweetness of her. Cherries.
Her perfume, her shampoo, I don’t even fucking know, but my entire car is drenched in it now.
The leather seats, the air vents, my own clothes.
I breathe in, and it’s like she’s still here, sitting in the passenger seat, humming along to the radio, smiling at me like she didn’t just detonate something in my chest.
My cock throbs against my zipper, demanding, painful.
I shift in the seat, grip the steering wheel like maybe I can will it away.
But all I see is her face tilting up, rain on her eyelashes, lips parted like an invitation.
Her little gasp when I tugged her hair. The way her hands trembled but she didn’t pull back.
My whole body is still on fire from it, running on a loop I can’t switch off.
I know I shouldn’t. Christ, I shouldn’t.
But before I can talk myself out of it, I shove the seat back, my movements clumsy, frantic.
My jeans scrape against my thighs as I get the zipper down.
My hand wraps around myself, rough, desperate, no hesitation.
It’s not gentle, not indulgent—just raw need, ugly and fast. I squeeze, stroke, every pump pulling me closer and closer to the edge because I’m not jerking off to some fantasy. I’m jerking off to her.
Her mouth on mine. Her teeth in my lip. The way her tongue slid against mine like she already knew exactly how I tasted. I can still feel the wet silk of her hair under my fingers, the way her breath hitched when I pulled her close. The sound still echoes in my ears, fragile and real.
“Fuck,” I mutter into the dark of the car, my voice hoarse, broken.
I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, punishing myself for it, as my hips lift off the seat.
The orgasm rips through me fast, violent, almost painful.
I spill hot across my fist, my stomach, my shirt and abs, the mess spattering up toward the steering wheel.
My body locks up, my throat tight, a low groan dragging itself out of me before I can choke it back down.
And then it’s done. I sag against the seat, my body trembling with the aftershocks, my chest heaving like I just went twelve rounds in the rink. The windows fog up with the heat of it, the sour-sweet smell of sex mixing with the cherry haze she left behind.
But it doesn’t clear my head. If anything, it makes everything sharper. The ghost of her kiss clings harder. The craving digs in deeper. I stare at the smear of condensation on the windshield, but all I can picture is Chloe’s lips glistening from mine, the bruised pink I left behind.
I grab napkins from the glove box, wiping myself off with quick, practiced motions.
It feels mechanical, routine, like this is just another thing I do in dark corners when I should be doing anything else.
The paper drags over my skin, damp and rough, but it doesn’t scrub her out of me.
I shove the crumpled napkins into a bag on the floor, tug my jeans back up, zip, button, force myself to breathe.
My chest is still tight, like I’m holding something I can’t afford to let anyone see. My lip throbs. My head hums. And all I can think is Chloe. Chloe. Chloe.
I tell myself I need to stop. That this is the exact shit I warned Jamie about—getting tangled with girls who are off-limits, who will never be anything but trouble.
I’ve seen how fast that trap can close, how it chews guys up from the inside out.
I promised myself I’d never be that stupid.
But my body doesn’t listen. My body wants her again already.
Wants to taste the cherries straight from her mouth, not from the ghost left behind.
I reach for my phone, desperate for something to anchor me, something to break the spell. I call the garage, my voice low, forcing casual. “Yeah, the car I called about earlier. Did you get it?”
The guy on the other end confirms, like it’s nothing, like this isn’t the hinge my entire morning’s been spinning on. He talks too long about paperwork, tow schedules, where it’s parked. I mutter thanks, hang up before I let myself say anything more.
Then I see the time.
The glowing red digits stab through me like a knife. My stomach drops. My pulse skips.
Close to eight.
“Oh fuck,” I whisper to the empty car, shoving the phone back into my pocket.
Victor.
The meeting.
I was supposed to be there already.
All the heat, all the haze, drains out of me in an instant, drowned under a surge of panic. My uncle doesn’t forgive late. Doesn’t forgive anything. Not from me. Especially not from me.
I jam the key harder into the ignition even though the engine’s already running, slam the gearshift into drive. Tires squeal against wet asphalt as I yank out of the lot. The drizzle’s turned into real rain, the wipers beating fast, but my head is louder than the storm.
I can’t shake the thought that he’s going to kill me.
Every thought of Chloe drowns under the roar of the Impala and the pulse of dread building behind my eyes. The streets blur past in streaks of rain and neon, my knuckles bone-white around the wheel.
By the time I pull up to the warehouse lot, my hands won’t stop shaking.
The steering wheel is slick from my grip, sweat sticking my palms even though the night is cold.
The lot is half-lit, one buzzing streetlamp flickering on and off like it can’t make up its mind.
Puddles slick the asphalt, black glass pooling in the dips of cracked concrete.
The smell of oil and rain clings heavy in the air, coating my tongue with a bitter film.
Victor’s car sits out front like a sentinel, low and gleaming under the weak light.
Rico’s slouched against it, a cigarette dangling from his lips, the ember glowing every time he takes a drag.
Two other guys lean nearby, shoulders hunched, their voices low.
A burst of laughter cuts through the damp air, sharp and careless.
But the second I slam my car door, the sound dies. All of them look up. The night folds in on itself.
Victor’s the first to move. He turns, slow, deliberate, like a predator that already knows the prey has nowhere to run. His voice is even, almost calm, but every word slices. “You’re late.”
I jog toward him, my breath catching on itself, excuses tripping out before I can think. “Sorry. Traffic. I—”
He doesn’t let me finish.
With just a flick of his hand, he waves the others off.
No words, no explanation. Rico takes one last drag, drops the cigarette, grinds it out under his boot before he disappears into the shadows with the others.
Their footsteps echo briefly, then fade, leaving me standing alone under the half-dead light.
The night feels too still, too tight, like it’s waiting to watch me break.
Victor steps forward. He’s holding a bottle of tequila, half-empty, the glass sweating in his grip. His expression is unreadable, but my gut already knows what’s coming.
And then the world shatters sideways.
Glass explodes against the side of my head, the crack so hard I swear the sound splits the air.
A flash of white explodes behind my eyes.
The bottle bursts, shards tearing skin as liquor spills over me, burning like hell as it snakes down my temple and jaw.
Pain sears through my skull, raw and immediate, sharp enough I can’t tell where the glass ends and the alcohol begins.
My ears ring so loud it drowns out the rain.
My vision lurches, doubling, tilting, spinning.
I stumble, my knees buckling, but Victor’s already got me.
His fist in my shirt, yanking me forward, then slams my head down onto the scarred wooden table behind him.
The impact jolts through my entire body.
Tequila drips from my hair, mixing with blood, stinging like fire as it runs into my eye.
The wood is rough under my cheek, splintered and sticky from old spills. My ribs grind against the edge as his weight pins me there. The table creaks, threatening to give under the pressure, but he doesn’t ease up.
“When I tell you to be somewhere,” he hisses, his breath hot with liquor, “you better fucking be there.”
“Yes, boss,” I rasp, my throat raw. Blood runs into my mouth, thick and metallic, filling my teeth with the taste of iron.
He presses harder, and the edge of the table digs deep into my ribs. My body begs me to fight, to shove him off, to breathe, but I know better. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I don’t twitch. The only sound is the creak of wood under his grip and the ragged pull of my own lungs.
My head swims, a storm of pain and chemicals.
The pill I swallowed earlier buzzes like a hornet nest under my skin.
Lack of sleep drags at my limbs, making everything heavier, slower.
And through all of it—like a knife shoved where it doesn’t belong—Chloe.
The memory of her lips, the taste of cherries still clinging even as blood drowns it out.