Page 32 of Rogue Riders Duet

Then he winks. Just a little one. Just enough to wreck my internal systems. My mouth opens, then closes, then I glare at the table as if it’s personally betrayed me.

“Have you ever gotten to ride with her? Alaina, I mean. She was something else.” He grins his damn grin. “She had the most distinct style. Like chaos with a purpose.” He exhales a soft laugh. “I could tell her apart from anybody else with my eyes closed.”

His words settle over me like sunlight I’m not supposed to feel. I want to soak in it, but the air suddenly feels too thin.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“No. She quit before I started.”

“Pity.”

His answer hangs in the air like a trap. I cannot tell for the life of me whether he’s toying with me or knows exactly who I am and is really toying with me.

Finn sets his drink down and nods at the notebook on the table. “You always this intense about your setup?”

What does he even want?

I shrug, my brain short-circuiting. “I don’t like surprises.”

I’m not about to tell him that I wake up from nightmares with the taste of blood in my mouth and the urge to check my bike overwhelming me. How I’ve jolted out of sleep and crawled to my setup so I can run my fingers over every bolt, every screw, making sure no one’s touched it. How the crash didn’t just break my body but shattered every ounce of trust I had in my hardware. How it left me with this twitchy, gnawing need to control every damn variable.

Because that didn’t happen to Allen.

Theoretically, Allen can sleep without knowing exactly, being absolutely sure that he was the only one who laid a hand on his bike.

But maybe Allen is just as obsessive. Writes everything down. Checks every bolt, every cable, every angle. Twice. Three times. Memorizes torque specs like they’re mantras.

But the moment I, or Allen, stop, the second trust is placed in anyone’s hands but our own, we lose.

I lose.

“Sure.” He arches a brow. “That’s why you’ve got pages and pages of handwritten notes in there like you’re logging scientific research, not bike maintenance.”

I bristle. “How’d you know?”

Finn has the decency to look sheepish. “I snooped while you were sleeping.”

“What the…”

“Relax.” He lifts his hands. “I didn’t read your diary. Just saw that you scribbled torque numbers and gear ratios in the margins like a total psychopath.”

“It’s more than maintenance,” I mutter, clutching the notebook tighter. “It’s memory.”

“Okay.” Finn doesn’t laugh or give me his usual smirk. He just leans in, curiosity sharpening the edges of his expression. “But why?”

I glance at the pages, the messy handwriting, and at the little arrows I draw to remind myself what to double-check. I shouldn’t say it, but the words are already crawling up my throat.

“Because if one bolt slips… it’s over. Not just the run. Everything.”

“And… you’ve had that kind of experience, kid?”

I look away, jaw tight. “I’m not a kid.”

Not since I learned what it feels like to suffocate on blood, silence, and the weight of your own body turning traitor.

“No,” he agrees. “No, you’re not.”

Then silence, thick and crackling.