The realisation is a second, more visceral hit. One minute I’m seconds from kissing Mal, the next I’m consumed by the growl ofthe clattering engines, the scent of singed rubber, and a rush of adrenaline that sickens me to the pit of my weak stomach.
My back thuds against the wall.
Mal doesn’t notice. He rises to get a better look at who’s coming, steps towards the edge of the roof, like he’s going to spring right off.
Then his hand shoots out, steadying himself on the chimney stack.
He’s dizzy.
The booze. Standing up so fast. All the things that brought me out here in the first place. I watch the world waver beneath his feet. His hard blink as his pulse stumbles, blood pressure shifting.
It’s fleeting, but sharp enough to stop me melting away as I come upright, the bikes still snarling loud enough to swallow the night.
They reach the fork in the road that leads nowhere but the pub—the garden, and small car park around the back. I make myself face the riders, but I know who they are before the first boot hits the pavement.
No cuts. No patches and insignia plastered to their clothes like combat medals.
Not like the old days.
They’renot like the old days, but their presence rattles me anyway—always does, and it’s hard to look at them without wishing I was dead.
Mal starts moving again, stepping towards them. Easy. Steady. Balance restored from whatever blip stalled him. He hops down a level, landing like a cat, agile and strong, and it’s my moment to leave. To abandon the madness we’ve found out here tonight and throw a wall up to whatever fucked-up reason these bikes have come here tonightforhim.
But an age-old instinct has me looking beyond Mal to where the hogs have rumbled to a stop. To the leader as he reaches for his helmet, tattooed fingers curling to raise it.
There’s a split second before our eyes meet.
Then I’m gone.
Back in my room before I see his face. Window shut. Hands pressed over my ears, forcing silence on the dull roar in my head.
It’s a while before I find the smooth round stone in my bed.
6MAL
The bike engines cut off as I jump from the single-storey section of the roof, and the riders set their boots down like they own the place. Or at least like they used to.
I land in front of the nearest Harley, already knowing he’s my guy—the one Jack recruited to babysit my mental health. Still not sure why I reached out to him, but here we are.
He tugs his helmet off, revealing a good-looking fucker around Jack’s age who’s so clearly from my fucking world he might as well haveRegimentinked on his forehead.
Not Regiment. He’s a swimmer, remember?
Whitlock. That’s his name.
He extends a hand that’s a few degrees warmer than Skylar’s, but lacks the potent heat. “Folk. Nice to meet you.”
“Folk? That a fucking road name?”
The biker closest to him snorts as he lifts his helmet, and he’s a handsome bastard too—all inked and beardy, if you like that kind of thing.
“It’s not a road name,” Folk tells me, a wry grin creasing his face. “But you can call me whatever you want, I don’t much care.”
I can see that. This fella has an ease to him I desperately need, one that stops me paying too much attention as the third rider dismounts and moves out, surveying their surroundings, like they’re guarding an actual king.
“They give them out when they pack you off?”
I flick a glance to the bearded biker. He’s eyeing my shorts, comparing them to the near identical ones Folk Whitlock wears.