Page 7 of Oops! I Fell for the Biker Next Door

When I finally hear the familiar roar drawing near, I force myself to stay still and not jump up like I want to. There's no doubt Riot's returning from wherever.

He'd tease me the second he caught me feeling eager for his arrival.

When the noise finally reaches the lot next door, I hear it cut off and expect the familiar creak of the front door to the cabin he's staying in. Instead, all I get is more silence.

"Does that actually work?"

I jump at the unexpected voice and open my eyes to see Riot standing to the side, supporting his weight on his elbows as he looks out from the side of my porch. He's staring at my collection of plants with a squinted expression.

"It's strange," he continues, not even trying to hold back. "You treat them like they're, well..."

"It's not strange," I argue with a huff. Sitting up straighter, I notice he's smirking now that he's gotten a reaction out of me. Was that his goal? "It helps them thrive, and it gives me something to do."

Plants are great listeners, even if they don't respond.

"Is babysitting them part of it, too?" He grips the board nearest to his chin, and I immediately notice his knuckles are red. Not just sore-looking, but damaged. "How would you feel about some company? Seeing you out here by yourself is making me feel kind of bad for you."

He's teasing and baiting me, and here I am, falling for it. That's why he gets cheeky when I try to nonchalantly shrug, as if I don't care, while my heart skips along to his tune.

He circles the porch and climbs up. He takes one of my seats and carefully moves the pot so he doesn't accidentally nudge it with his boot. When he settles, I try to do the same.

This time, when I close my eyes, his knuckles burn in my mind.

"What happened to your hands?" I ask, trying to sound unbothered. When he doesn't answer right away, I fail.

I open my eyes and notice him frowning at his hands. Is he thinking of an excuse or a lie?

"I beat up someone who was giving a lady a hard time," he finally answers. "Looks worse than it feels."

He makes it sound so simple.

"Do you, uh, do that a lot?" Shifting in my seat, I try to picture it. Not the violence part, but Riot acting the role of some kind of antihero who goes saving someone defenseless. He might've fought a bit during high school, but nothing too insane. One time, he let me patch up his bruised cheek. I still remember Mary Lou getting so fussy about it, that he'd stolen me away to get an hour of peaceful silence.

I got fussy too, but he'd been less annoyed by it.

Once more, Riot hesitates on his answer. "You're not going to be weird about it if I say yes, are you?"

Am I? I mean, he'd done it for a good reason, from the way he's making it out to be.

"Maybe if you gave me a little more context, I won't. You're not running around playing Batman or something like that, are you?"

He laughs, easing the tension. "I prefer to do all my saving in broad daylight. Oh, and I'm not rich, either. Talk about a terrible comparison..." Sighing softly, he relaxes more. "I'm part of a group that protects others. Maybe not in the most... friendliest ways, but—"

“Steelwood, right?” I nod toward the patch on his back, encouraged to pursue the possibility of learning more about him. “Is that what you do with your time? Hurting your hands?”

He rests his elbow against the armrest, leaning in with a slow, faint smile. "Only a third of my time goes to my fists." He looks me over, waiting for some kind of response before his shoulders relax. "Actually, I’ve gotten really good with guns. Met a guy who took me under his wing. He was a hitman for a few years and taught me how to handle a rifle. Coolest guy you could ever meet."

I hold his gaze, waiting for the punchline that doesn't come. My stomach does a quiet flip. Is this it, then? Is this the answer to the years he vanished, the grand solution he went searching for when he promised he'd find a way to help his mother? Wait, did he say hitman?

“Does it pay well?” I ask softly.

He nods, no hesitation this time.

“And you like it?”

“I do.” His posture softens, a rare shadow of vulnerability crossing his face. “It gives me a purpose, and I can help those who need it. Even if I have to play the bad guy, I promise I'm good.”

I don't think I could ever look at him and think he's bad.