Page 14 of Crash’s Secret

“You weren’t invisible. But you’re right; I never saw you as more than a kid.” He says it low. “Because that’s what you were—a kid.”

He’s right. I was a kid. He’s nine years older than me.

“I know that now, but I didn’t feel like a kid back then.” I rub at some dried lime juice on my forearm. “It’s why I left. I figured I only wanted you because I couldn’t have you. Like forbidden fruit. So I went to college in a place where nobody knew who I was. And nobody was off-limits. I went, so I could stop thinking about you.”

“Did you?”

“I had four years and a whole life out there.” I watch lights start to turn on below us. “And the whole drive back, the person I couldn’t wait to see wasn’t my brother.”

“If you’re about to say Trapper⁠—”

The grin doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t joke about this. Please.”

The grin dies the rest of the way, and for a second, I’m looking at a man I don’t know. No charm.

He turns toward the valley.

“I’ve watched you charm every woman who’s ever walked into that bar. And they all want you. The number of women you’ve slept with is no secret,” I say. “Yet, you’ve never had an actual relationship. Have you ever felt anything for anybody?”

“No.” He says it without any hint of regret.

“I see.”

He walks back to the bike and leans against it and picks a flat piece of shale off the ground. “My mom raised me alone. Mostly.” He turns the rock over. “Mostly is the operative word. There were men. A whole revolving door of them, and every one of them promised her the world. House with a yard. Take the boy fishing. Marry her in the spring.” He shifts his position against his bike. “One of them, Ray, lasted two years.”

“Crash—”

“She had this routine.” He keeps going like I haven’t spoken, like the story will only come out if he doesn’t stop. “When one of them didn’t show, or showed and said the wrong thing, she’d stand at the kitchen sink and run the water so I couldn’t hear her cry. Then she’d shut the tap, fix her face in the side of the toaster, and come out asking what I wanted for dinner.” He throws the rock over the ridge. “I was eight the first time I worked out what the water was for. I told myself that night, if I can’t keep a promise to a woman, I don’t make one.”

“And you couldn’t keep one?”

“Never wanted to.” He brushes shale dust off his hands. “I’m a flirt. I like flirting. Being nice costs nothing. Everybody laughs, everybody leaves happy, and nobody cries when I leave. I never promise I’ll stay. I’m always very clear about that.”

“Do you think your mom would be proud of that?”

“She died when I was still a prospect. Never got the house with the yard.” He shrugs. “But yeah. I think she’d have been proud that I don’t promise women dreams I have no intention of fulfilling.”

The sun is gone. The sky over the range is burning down through orange into a deep bruised purple, and the first cold edge of desert night moves across the ridge.

“Do you ever want to fall in love?”

“Not with the type of women I’ve been with. They don’t want to get to know me. They love the idea of dating a patched member, being an Old Lady. They like the money and the lifestyle.”

He doesn’t want to fall in love. I asked the question, but I don’t like the answer. I really thought I felt something between us, but I was wrong, and I’ll accept that.

“But you’re not that type of woman.” He finally turns and looks at me again. “You grew up in this world. The patch doesn’t impress you. The money doesn’t impress you. You’ve watched what this life actually costs people; your whole family paid it.” He shakes his head. “Which means if you wanted me, it’d be me. And that’s never happened.” He exhales. “You know the real me, Cass. And I know the real you. I want⁠—”

He stops. Right there, on the edge of the words I want to hear.

He doesn’t finish the sentence. “We better get back.”

He swings a leg over and settles into the seat, and he won’t look at me.

I walk over and stand beside the bike.

“Scoot back.”