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What amIdoing? What ishedoing? And, more importantly, what ishedoinghere? Tate’s family left town just after he turned sixteen, but now that he’s almost nineteen and a high school graduate I guess he could have moved out. He could have moved back.
He could have been back for a while.
“I’m leaving,” I say and I turn back around, ready to scrape the shit out of the truck bed whilst I extract my bike. I hope the spokes are extra spiky today.
“Wait,” he says, and his tone is suddenly lighter, entertained almost.
I narrow my eyes in suspicion.
“Did you punch this truck?”
I turn around and see him looking at the sight of the crime. Evil metal nubs sticking out of the panel. I don’t think that I even dented it.
A pity.
“It almost crushed my bike,” I say.
Why am I even talking to him?Rot in Hell, Tate.
I can hear him laugh softly as I try to squeeze between the truck bed and the bush behind it to access my bike for retrieving.
Asshole.
But then an engine revs and I’m no longer being juiced as the truck drives three feet forward. Tate puts the truck into park and then steps out of the driver’s side, leaning his bicep against the door with a playful glint in his eyes.
“I’m glad that I got over here before you slashed the tires.”
What an excellent idea.
He rounds the other side of the bed and pulls up the tarp, squinting up at me against the beating rain. “Put the bike in the bed. I’ll take you to the hospital.”
“Uh, no way,” I say and I give him anas ifeyebrow raise as I mount my bike.
Suddenly he’s in front of me, gripping the handlebars in his big drenched fists.
“You can’t be serious,” he says, his voice hard.
I look up and I wish that I hadn’t. He’s so close to me that I can almost taste the rain radiating off his warm skin. His jaw is so tense and his eyes are so hard that he’s practically vibrating.
“Riding a bike. No helmet. In a rainstorm.” He glances down at my bloodied fist. “One handed.”
He looks furious, which fills me with evil glee.
I ring my little bell.
“Move, please.”
His hands grip tighter, jaw flexing. His white knuckles are making me sick with pleasure.
Why do you care so much, Tate?
“Don’t do this, River.”
I push off the ground to get my foot on the pedal, which is, admittedly, concerningly slick. The front wheel shoves into the leg of his denim jeans and reluctantly he takes a step back. He thrusts his hands in his pockets and pierces me with a deep, molten glare.
I’m almost shimmering with satisfaction.
“Stay away from me,” I warn him with narrowed eyes, and then I kick back off the blacktop and speed away as fast as I can.
