Page 12

So Vadka is an objectively attractive male. Fact . I'd have to be a fucking moron not to see it.

Also fact: He was married to my sister . Should that gross me out? No idea.

Does it? Sigh. No.

Does it make me feel guilty? Guilty as fuck . Why?

Am I attracted to him? No question. I’m practically schoolgirl-crushing on the guy.

So the next question is… Is he attracted to me ?

I saw him fall in love with my sister. I saw how much he adored her. I was with him the day she was shot, and I watched as she died in his arms. And I will never, ever, as long as I live, forget the sound of him screaming, trying to save her, begging for help—that sound that haunts me to this day.

I look away from him. I wish we could erase that night, not just because Mariah should be here with us, but because I don’t want to relive that pain over and over and over again, just like I do every time I’m with him.

Then why does it feel like he’s the only one who understands that there’s a hole in my heart that will never be filled again—not by anyone?

He walks over and wordlessly takes his leather jacket off the back of the bike.

“You’ll wear this, and that’s not a suggestion. It’s not safe for you to ride on a motorcycle without leather.”

“What about you?”

He gives me a withering look and rolls his eyes, then holds the sleeves out for me to slide into. I blush and look away as I slide my arms in.

I was right. It’s soft, buttery leather, still warm, and it smells like him. And I love it.

“But I don’t have a?—”

He slams a helmet on the back of my head before I can finish. Then he helps me adjust the strap.

“I guess you keep a spare helmet with your rags?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he rumbles. “But this one was fitted for your sister.”

My god.

I’m wearing a helmet that my sister was supposed to wear… on the back of her husband’s motorcycle.

But then he adds quietly, “She never wore it. I just kept it with me in case she decided to change her mind and give it a go.”

And my heart—oh god, my heart.

I am not okay. I think I need therapy or something.

“I don’t know how to ride on the back of a motorcycle,” I admit, and I feel like I want to pout like a child. I’m not crazy about admitting I don’t know how to do something. I value my independence and autonomy.

But he doesn’t tease me. Doesn’t laugh. Just looks at me with that quiet, steady gaze and says, “You don’t need to know much.

Just get on and hold tight.” He climbs on, turns slightly, and motions.

“Put your left foot on the peg. Swing your right leg over. Then sit close—yeah, like that. Now wrap your arms around my waist.” I do.

I can feel how strong he is, how large and muscular.

It’s immediately intimate in a way I’m not prepared for.

“Just hold on,” he says. “Keep your arms around my waist and don’t let go. I know how to drive this. I’m not going to hurt us.”

Then he kicks the ignition, and we start moving. And my crazy, self-deprecating, grief-riddled thoughts—cease.

Because this. Is. Amazing .

My heart soars, my brain clears, exhilaration floods my limbs. And we’re not even going fast yet.

My arms are wrapped around the only person in my life I can depend on, on the back of his bike, my hair that escaped the helmet flying behind me as the wind whips past and cars blur by us.

I’ve never felt so free in my life.

“This is awesommmme!” I scream into the air, and my words are immediately swallowed by the wind. I don’t even know if he hears me.

He rides with masterful skill, like he was built to ride it—with confidence and grace. I think he’s maybe showing off a little, and that’s fine with me.

I don’t know how to explain it, except to say it’s…beautiful. Like a horse galloping wild through a field. An eagle taking flight. A waterfall crashing on craggy rocks below.

There’s something majestic, powerful, and intoxicating about watching him ride. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.

I blink back tears. I didn’t know how much I needed this.

I don’t want to stop. I want him to keep going forever.

I want to stay right here, on the back of his bike, forgetting my pain, my fears, my worries.

Forgetting that my sister died in a way she never should have.

Forgetting that I couldn’t hold the pieces of my family together, no matter how hard I tried.

Forgetting everything except this—right here, right now— freedom .

I don’t know where we’re going or how we’re getting there.

I see him tap the side of his helmet, and it looks like he’s speaking into it.

And then his voice sounds in my ear. “How are you doing back there?”

Oh my gosh.

There are intercoms in the helmets? That is so cool.

I’m sitting directly behind him, and now I can hear him like he’s whispering right into my ear.

Of course we couldn’t hear each other over the wind and the engine’s growl. But then his voice crackles in my ear—low, rough, unmistakably close. “ Press the button on your left side. You’ll hear a click. That means I can hear you. ”

I fumble along the side of the helmet, fingers shaking slightly, find the small raised circle, and press. Click.

“ Good, ” he says, voice sliding right into my head like he’s inside me now. “ There’s a mic near your chin. Don’t shout. Just talk. I’ll hear everything. ”

The way he says it— I’ll hear everything —sends a shiver down my spine.

“ Even if I curse you out? ” I test, the tease automatic—armor against how exposed I suddenly feel with his voice in my ear and my arms locked around his body.

“ Especially then, you little brat ,” he growls. “ Now hold on. We’re not cruising. We’re running. ”

And just like that, the engine roars, and we’re gone—my breath caught somewhere between fear and the brutal comfort of his control.

“Can we keep going?” I say, unable to squelch the excitement in my voice. “This is the most amazing fucking thing I’ve ever done in my life. I don’t ever want to stop. I want you to keep going and going. Oh my god, I can’t believe this feels so good.”

His chuckle skates down my spine, and I’m grinning—no, I’m fucking smiling—and I think it might be the first time I’ve smiled since my sister’s funeral.

Nothing makes me this happy anymore. Fucking nothing.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it? I wish Mariah could’ve experienced this.”

I nod because I agree. And it feels right, talking about my sister like this. Like she just went on a little trip, and not like we’re collectively breaking into pieces remembering her.

“I don’t really think she would’ve liked it,” I tell him. “She didn’t like roller coasters. Or even riding a bike. And she hated heights.”

"That's true," he says, and I realize that somehow, not having to look at him—even with my arms wrapped around his solid midsection and his voice in my ear—is intimate, but it makes it easier to talk to him this way.

And I want to tell him everything. I want to tell him that I'm sorry for yelling at him for not taking care of my nephew when he's done his very best. I want to tell him that I'm sorry it was my fault Mariah came into the bar that night—that if I hadn't asked her to come talk about my latest drama, she would've been home with Luka .

I want to tell him that he was the very best husband he could've been to my sister and that even though she died too soon, she lived the life she deserved—being worshipped by her husband. Surrounded by people who loved her. Loved by the sweetest little boy in the world.

I want to tell him all of these things, and I say nothing. I lose myself to the ride once more.

And it feels so goddamn good. I let out a sigh at the same time he does, and I want to hug him. I want to tell him I love him—but not in the way a woman in love with a man would. I love him like a brother.

Do I?

And then he taps something on his helmet and starts talking into it again, but this time, I don’t hear what he says. I can feel the tension shift in his body before he even speaks—the way his back straightens a little, even on the bike.

Something happened. Something’s changed.

His voice is in my ear again.

“Change of plans, Ruthie.”