Chapter 147
Summer's POV
"I'll take you somewhere," he said, and there was something fragile in how he said it, like he was afraid I'd refuse. "But we're not staying here."
I'd never ridden on the back of a bike before. In either life. In my first timeline, I'd gone from Mom's Mercedes to Kieran's Rolls-Royce, and we'd sat in separate seats with a privacy screen between us like strangers who'd signed a contract instead of vows. Now I was staring at a rusty old bike with a thick cushion that looked like it had been salvaged from someone's discarded couch, and Kieran was looking at me with those storm-gray eyes that held too much fear and too much hope all at once.
"I don't know if I can—"
"You can," Kieran said simply. He patted the cushion, his right hand trembling slightly, the damaged fingers curling awkwardly. "Lily rides here all the time. It's safe."
Safe. The word felt like a lie after what we'd just escaped, but I climbed on anyway. The cushion was softer than I expected, worn and molded to the shape of countless rides. I could picture little Lily with her mushroom-cut hair sitting here, her arms wrapped around her brother's waist, trusting him completely. There was a metal rack behind me, cold metal that I gripped with both hands, but the moment Kieran pushed off I could tell it wasn't going to be enough.
The bike wobbled before he found his balance. We rolled away from the T station, past late-night convenience stores and the closed laundromat, the pavement potholed beneath us. My hair whipped around my face. In the distance I could hear sirens, and my heart clenched with the irrational fear that they were heading toward The Happy Patty.
"Kieran," I said, "what happened after I left? Did he—"
"I got out." His voice was steadier now, but I could hear him breathing hard. "Don't worry about it."
But I could see the tension still locked in his shoulders, could feel his entire body coiled tight like he was expecting another blow. The wind picked up as we turned onto a darker street, and the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. I was only wearing my hoodie, and the cold cut through the thin fabric like knives.
We started up a small incline, and I felt myself sliding backward. My fingers tightened on the metal rack behind me, but it was too far back, the angle all wrong. Panic shot through me.
The bike hit a pothole and I lurched backward, my hands slipping off the metal rack completely.
Without thinking, I wrapped my arms around Kieran's waist, pressing myself against his back. Even through our clothes I could feel the heat of his skin, the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. His t-shirt was damp with sweat despite the cold, and beneath it his skin was burning hot, like his body was still flooded with adrenaline from whatever he'd just survived.
He went rigid under my touch. I felt every muscle in his torso lock up, his heart hammering against my palms where they pressed flat against his stomach. His breathing hitched, stopped, then started again in short, sharp bursts.
"Sorry," I gasped against his shoulder blade. "I couldn't hold on to the bar, I was going to fall—"
"It's okay." His voice came out rough, almost strangled, and I felt the words vibrate through his back into my chest. "Hold on."
I tightened my grip, my fingers splaying across his abdomen, feeling the lean muscle there, taut and trembling. The bike picked up speed as we crested the hill, and the wind carried the smell of his skin—sweat and soap and something uniquely him that made my heart race faster than the cold ever could. I could feel each breath he took, feel his heart racing just as fast as mine, feel the heat radiating from his body cutting through the March chill.
Gradually, as we rode through the dark streets of Southie, I felt the terror begin to ease. Kieran was here. He was alive. He'd gotten away from Drake, and the solid warmth of his body against mine was proof that this timeline was different, that I could change things, that I hadn't lost him yet. The rhythm of the bike became almost soothing—the steady rotation of the pedals, the slight sway as we turned corners—and I found myself relaxing against him, my death grip loosening into something that felt almost like an embrace.
That's when my hand slipped lower.
I'd been adjusting my grip, trying to find a more comfortable position, and my palm slid down past the waistband of his jeans. My fingers brushed against something hard and unmistakably not his stomach, something that definitely shouldn't have been that prominent unless—
Oh God.
"Summer." Kieran's voice was strained, almost pained, and the bike wobbled as his grip on the metal racks faltered. "You're—where exactly are you touching?"
Heat flooded my face so fast I felt dizzy. My hand had somehow wandered past his belt, and oh God, I could feel—through the worn denim—
"I'm sorry!" I tried to jerk my hand away, but the bike hit another pothole and I had to grab onto him again or risk flying off. My palm landed right back where it had been, maybe even lower, and I felt Kieran's entire body go rigid. "I didn't mean to, I wasn't paying attention, I was just trying to hold on—"
"Summer." His voice was tight, controlled in a way that suggested he was using every ounce of willpower he possessed. "You need to move your hand. Now."