Niro (Henchmen MC Next Generation 1)

All the shit I had no business thinking about.

"I don't like the bikes, Niro. Remember?" she asked, sounding small and sad at the idea that I had forgotten.

I hadn't, not completely.

Her objection to the bike, though, was an old childhood thing. I always figured she would grow out of it eventually.

Apparently, I was wrong.

"I'll go slow," I said, shrugging, still not looking at her.

"Um..."

"You're going to need to trust me," I told her.

"I always..." she started, then trailed off.

But I knew what she was trying to stop herself from saying.

She always had.

But she wasn't sure anymore.

Which was good.

That was what I wanted.

"The sooner you get on the bike, the sooner this will be over." And you can get away from me, I added silently, climbing on the bike, shoving the helmet on my head.

I guess my words had some sway because she grabbed the spare helmet, put it on, then moved over to the side of the bike, doing a weird move to get on which I imagined was to save her from flashing anyone.

"You need to move up," I told her, noticing the way she was holding herself back, her body barely touching me.

"Right," she mumbled, letting out a deep breath and sliding forward, her body pressing into mine. Knees, thighs, stomach, chest.

Fuck.

Fuck.

I needed to be thinking of something else. Anything else.

"Arms," I told her through gritted teeth, feeling her tentative hands going around my chest, her fingers grabbing each of her wrists instead of holding onto me.

I shouldn't have been annoyed by that, but there it was regardless.

But before I could overthink shit any further, I turned over the bike and pulled out, finding myself thankful that Andi's family lived close-by.

Still, my jaw was clenched so hard it was painful by the time I pulled up in front of that old, familiar Victorian. I couldn't count how many days of my life I'd spent in that house, in the yard.

I'd helped Andi change out the duck pond and rescue any stray frogs in the lawn before her father cut it, had dinner at her kitchen table, nearly gotten my finger bitten off by one of the macaws, curled up with Andi in her bed to watch movies, trying like fuck not to have any sort of physical reaction to her nearness.

No.

I needed to stop thinking of that shit.

It wouldn't lead anywhere good.

It wasn't until I cut the engine that I realized maybe I hadn't gone slow enough, been careful enough, been trustworthy enough.

Because Andi's small frame was tumbling behind me even as she pulled her arms from around me.

Trembling.

The urge to grab her, pull her to my chest, tell her I was sorry, that I would never make her do that again, was stronger than it should have been after all these years, all this work I'd done to shake that softness I'd felt toward her.

I couldn't go back now, at the first test.

Not if I was going to survive her being back in town.

"You'll be fine," I told her instead, voice low, feelingless. It wasn't the reassurance she wanted, the one she associated with me.

And seeming to realize she couldn't get that anymore, at least from me, that she never would again, her whole body stiffened before she jumped suddenly off the bike, rushing up the front path without even saying a word.

She didn't even take off the helmet.

She damn sure didn't turn to look back at me.

That was what I wanted.

Of course it was.

Yet there was no denying the cracking sensation in my chest, right there where the minuscule little thing I dared to call a heart still resided.

Chapter Six

Andi

My dad was right.

He'd changed.

I didn't even recognize him anymore.

At a soul level.

Something had cracked there for him. And that had also managed to fracture whatever it was that had bound us together for most of our lives.

The pain of that was shockingly intense, enough to steal away my breath whenever the thought crossed my mind.

Unfortunately, though, I had been able to think of little else since then. I just replayed it all in my head over and over again.

"You know, tears don't count as watering the garden, honey," my mom's voice called, calm, light, even at the sight of my tears.

What can I say? I was someone who cried a lot. I always had. My mother had always treated them with a grain of salt. Which was probably wise, since I often recovered just as quickly as I was afflicted with them.

This, though, this didn't seem fleeting.

This felt like a crack that had been chiseled in my heart.

So when I heard her voice, it didn't make a little hiccuping laugh escape me like it might normally. No, it made a pathetic sob do so instead as I raised my hands—garden soil and all—to my face.

"Dad was right," I told her, voice a weak sound. "About Niro. He was right. How could he be right?"