She grins back at me. “Oh, ye of little faith.” She squeezes into the garage between the two ridiculously awesome cars that belong to her parents, ones I long to touch, but have never worked up the courage to.
I notice she has an iPod tucked in her back pocket that I’m sure will serve some sort of purpose later on. When she emerges again, she has her bike.
“We’re going to take this bad boy down to Cherry Hill.”
“No way. That hill is freaking steep. Plus, aren’t we a little too old for bikes?”
“We are never too old for bikes.” She juts out her lip. “Pretty please. With a cherry on top.”
It’s really hard not to say yes to her when she looks like that. Still, I’m torn between coming back to Mrs. Gregory in one piece and making Lyric happy.
“All right, I’ll do it, as long as we wear helmets. And take my bike.”
“I’ll agree to the helmets, but we have to take my bike. Yours doesn’t have pegs.”
“Why do we need pegs?”
A mischievous grin lights up her face, and I know I’m in for something really iffy when we reach that hill. “You’ll see.”
Ten minutes later, I’m riding a purple bike, wearing a helmet, and Lyric is standing on the back pegs. She has her hands placed on my shoulders, and I’m both content and uneasy about the touch—always am.
“Okay, stop the bike right here,” she says, pointing over my shoulder at the center of the street on top of Cherry Hill.
I aim the bike in the direction and plant my feet onto the asphalt when we arrive at the spot. The inclined road, bordered with lofty, narrow homes, makes me dizzy.
“Are you sure about this?” I warily eye the bottom of the hill, which is an intersection.
Nodding, she pops an earbud into my ear while placing one in her own. “I have to do this, Ayden. It’s important to my musical inspiration.”
As the lyrics of “Fire Fire” by Flyleaf fill my head, I summon a deep breath, pick up my feet, and position them on the pedals. I don’t even have to put pressure on them. The bike takes off on its own and descends quickly down the hill, gaining momentum the further down we go. I start to grow nervous, and my nerves only escalate when Lyric’s hands leave my shoulders.
“What the heck are you doing?” I peek back at her while grasping onto the handlebars.
“Flying.” She has her arms spanned out to the side, her head angled toward the sky. Her long blonde hair blows out behind her as the wind dances through it. Moments later, she shuts her eyes.
Everything pauses. The freedom she carries is a beautiful, enthralling sight. So enthralling that it feels like I’m falling …
“Ayden, look out!” Lyric shouts, her eyes wide open as her hands clamp down on my shoulders.
I look at the road just in time to see a car heading at us. I swerve to the left, but it doesn’t help as we barrel toward a thick tree. The front wheel of the bike slams into the truck and I go soaring over the handlebars. Thankfully, I manage to keep my head from hitting the concrete, because even with the helmet on, it would have hurt like a motherfucker. The wind gets knocked out of me, though, and I struggle for oxygen as I lie on my back, staring up at the sky, feeling strangely free at the moment, even with the pain.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” Lyric appears above me, worry written all over her face as she throws her helmet off. “Be okay. Be okay. Be okay.” She frantically scans my face and then my body, checking for wounds.
Honestly, I feel fine. My knee and elbow ache a bit, but that’s it. I’ve experienced way more pain than this. I remain still, though, fascinated with how fussy she’s being. Normally she’s so carefree, but right now she’s wound up and panicking. Over me.
I’ve lived with over six families, and no one has ever cared about me as much as Lyric appears to right now.
Soft lyrics flow through my head.
Let me sing you to sleep.
Kiss your pain away.
Take your next breath for you.
And keep it as my own forever.
Maybe I’m an asshole for doing it, but I pretend to be hurt, lying still for longer than I should, seeking the fussing just a bit longer. When her eyes meet mine again, I start to feel bad for causing her so much worry. I open my mouth to tell her I’m okay, but the intense look on her face causes me to burst out laughing.
When her eyes narrow, I raise my hands, surrendering. “I’m sorry. I swear. I was just messing around. I’m fine. I promise.”
She pinches my arm and I wince, yet continue laughing.
“Seriously, Ayden. That’s not funny.”
“Oh, come on.” I prop up onto my elbows. “Don’t pretend like you wouldn’t have done the exact same thing.”
She crosses her arms, trying to remain pissed, but Lyric never stays upset for more than five seconds, and right on time, she relaxes. “Okay, I’ll let you off the hook, but only because I got you to smile.” She smiles herself as I reach up and touch my upturned lips.
She’s right. I am smiling. And laughing. It’s been such a long time that I hadn’t even noticed.
“Come on.” She stands up, brushes some of the grass off her legs, then offers me her hand. “Let’s move on to phase two.”
“Phase two?” I question with doubt.
“What, you don’t trust me?”
The mangled bike ten feet away should answer that question for me. Regardless of the bent metal and dents in the frame, I still wholly trust her. More than I’ve trusted anyone.
I nod, lacing my fingers through hers and get to my feet. “But no more hills.”
“Deal.” She grins.
The day feels so perfect. So real. I just wish I knew if my brother and sister have the same thing.
Chapter 5
Ayden
We spend the rest of the day doing things a little less dangerous, rolling the mangled bike along with us. We walk down to the local bridge, go get some ice cream, and hang out at the park for a while. By the time we arrive back home, the sun has lowered and the sky is black.
As we’re putting the bike away in the garage, Lyric checks her phone. “Oh, looks like we have the place to ourselves. Everyone went out to the movies.”
“What are we going to do? Because I know you’re already thinking of something.”
“You know me way too well.”
As she ponders an idea, I dare to touch the shiny black Chevelle in the garage. I remember how one of my foster fathers had one similar to it, only it needed a lot more work. He was one of the mildly tolerable parental figures. He never did let me touch the car, though.
“You know, I could always ask my mom if you can drive it,” she unexpectedly says.
I hastily withdraw my hand from the car, as if I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. “No, I’m okay.”
“Well, you can drive mine when I get it, then. It’s going to be a Dodge Challenger, though. And a fixer upper. At least, that’s the plan we’ve had since I turned fifteen and a half and got my driving permit.” When I look at her again, she’s got her evil plan face on. “So, do you want to see something really cool?”
“Maybe,” I reply cautiously. “It really depends on what it is.”
Grinning deviously, she guides me through the house, toward the back section, coming to a halt at a closed door beside the den.
“I’ve never been in this room before,” I remark as her fingers encase the doorknob.
“That’s because I’m technically not allowed in here unless my dad’
s with me.”
Before I can protest, she shoves open the door and flips on the light.
All of my objections abruptly dissipate.
“This is your dad’s office?” I step over the threshold behind her and glance around the room filled with old guitars, signed albums, drumsticks, photos, and plaques. So much cool stuff my mind goes into overload.