Chapter 6 Kristen
The bike hadn’t even stopped growling when I got on. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to need help or climb onto the back of a stranger’s machine like some helpless girl in a movie. But the road was empty, and there were three unconscious men bleeding behind me, and I didn’t have a better plan. I swung my leg over, sat, and immediately realized how close I had to be.
My thighs pressed along the backs of his. There was no room for distance. My hands hovered for a second, unsure where to hold. Eventually I settled them low at his waist, not tightly, just enough to feel anchored when the bike started to move. The leather under my fingers was warm, already shaped to his body. I could feel how solid he was through it, all tension and muscle beneath worn layers. The second we pulled onto the road, I felt every inch of the connection. Every bump lifted me forward, jostled me against him. My chest brushed his back. I kept trying to hold myself steady without touching more than necessary, but there was no way around it.
He shifted forward slightly. Not dramatically. Just enough to widen the space between us.
I almost pulled back out of instinct, grateful for the relief, until it hit me why he did it. It wasn’t kindness. It was distance. A line drawn without a word.
That shouldn’t have stung.
But it did.
I didn’t say anything. I pressed my lips together, adjusted my grip, and focused on the road ahead, even though all I could see was his back.
The wind cooled my face, but it didn’t reach the rest of me. My entire front was pressed to his heat, and it felt like being pinned between two elements that didn’t belong together. Hot and cold. Fire and asphalt. I looked down at his forearms, where his sleeves had ridden up just enough to show the tattoos beneath. Black ink coiled down the length of both arms. The lines were clean, no frills, no shading. Sharp symbols and crooked numbers, some faded like they were older than the others. There was one that looked like a date, but the order was wrong. One of the designs might have been a map. Or a name. Or nothing at all.
They weren’t pretty. They weren’t meant to be. They looked like warnings.
His arms flexed when he gripped the handlebars tighter. The shift in his muscles was subtle, practiced. He handled the curves like he’d memorized them years ago, leaning in with just enough force to keep us balanced, never jerking the weight around, never hesitating. It was all muscle memory. Control. I didn’t like the questions piling up in my head. I didn’t like that my eyes kept going back to his neck. To the sharp line of his jaw. To the way the wind hit the ends of his black hair and lifted them just enough to show a pale scar behind his right ear.
I didn’t want to notice him.
I didn’t want to care about anything beneath the leather or behind that voice.
But I did.
My fingers tightened slightly around his waist, and I hated myself for it.
“How did you do that?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
The engine was loud, but not loud enough to explain away the silence.
“You bent a gun,” I said louder. “That’s not normal.”
Still nothing. He didn’t even turn his head. His posture stayed exactly the same, fixed forward, eyes on the road like he hadn’t heard me at all.
“Talk to me.”
I leaned in a little closer. “Please.”
He answered. One word. Quiet. Flat.
“No.”
It landed like a stone in my chest. There was nothing behind it. No hesitation, no anger, no weight of consideration. Just a wall. A refusal not just to explain but to engage. I stared at the back of his neck for a few seconds, trying to decide if I was hurt or furious. Probably both. I clenched my jaw until my molars ached and felt the pressure rising behind my ribs like something about to snap.
“Stop the bike.”
No reaction.
“Did you hear me?” My voice was sharper this time. “I said stop.”
Still nothing.
I slid my hand from his waist down to his wrist. His skin was warm under the glove. I pressed my palm against the back of his hand and shoved down, just hard enough to interrupt the throttle. The bike wobbled slightly. He corrected easily, like it was nothing.
I shoved harder.
This time the machine stuttered. Gravel cracked beneath us. He pulled the clutch, shifted his weight, and brought the bike to a sharp halt at the edge of the road.
I didn’t wait for an invitation. I swung my leg off and stepped away, boots crunching on the gravel. The wind hit my face harder now, and the sudden silence made my ears ring. I took two steps forward, then three. My body was still humming with energy from the ride, and my hands felt too tight, my arms too hot. I didn’t look back. I didn’t need to.
I just started walking.
Not with purpose. Not toward anything.
Just away.
I didn’t want to hear him speak. I didn’t want another no. I wanted something to make sense. I wanted the tightness in my throat to loosen, the noise in my head to stop.
I kept walking until my steps lost their rhythm, then I ran.
Dust kicked up around me. My chest burned. I didn’t care.
I didn’t know where I was going.
But I knew I couldn’t be near him another second.
Somewhere behind me, I heard my name.
He didn’t yell it.
He just said it, quiet and steady, like it wasn’t a command or a question but a fact.
I kept going.
The road curved slightly ahead. I didn’t care.
The sound of footsteps followed—heavier than mine, faster, catching up.
I kept my eyes forward.
But I could see it out of the corner of my eye.
His shadow was overtaking mine.