Rooming with the Wicked

41 | anything suspicious

Haze wasn't wrong. Not entirely anyway.

He was an excellent driver. That didn't mean my arms wouldn't be sore and aching tomorrow just from clutching onto him.

To his credit, he never complained. Not once. He didn't even flinch when I gripped his torso for dear life after a particularly careless cab driver randomly opened the driver's door in the middle of the intersection for whatever reason. Haze just braked smoothly and then swerved around the man like some kind of professional stunt driver.

As we left the intersection behind, his gloved hand found my thigh. Despite our increasing speed and the cars whooshing past us on both sides, all I could focus on was his touch. Gentle. Warm. Exhaling a shaky breath, I rested my head on his shoulder. I didn't loosen my grip though.

When he reached forward to grasp the handlebar again, I suddenly felt cold despite the wall of comfortable heat my arms were currently wrapped around.

It was smooth sailing after that. My grasp on him loosened ever so slightly once busy city avenues were slowly replaced by dimly lit suburban streets that didn't have me constantly worrying that someone was going to sideswipe us. That brief feeling of relief didn't last long though.

When the brights lit up that dark empty countryside road I knew all too well, my stomach clenched.

Framed by tall evergreen trees on both sides it exuded peace and tranquility during the daytime. At least that's what everyone always said. To me, they were sentries, immovable and looming. Nothing but uncomfortable reminders of the place I'd been forced to call home for the longest time.

Gravel crunched beneath the tires, interrupting the steady hum of the engine. The bike slowed and I tilted my head to the side. A narrow, paved path almost concealed by overgrown bushes appeared on the right. Almost there.

I took a deep breath.

We followed the smaller road for a couple of hundred feet before stopping in front of a wrought iron gate. Diamond-shaped spikes on top shone in bright blue lantern light. Lux crystals, of course. Dad had been one of the first human ambassadors to get crystal lighting.

I tapped Haze on his stomach three times and flipped up my visor. Cool night air hit my face. It felt good.

Haze's head snapped around and he flicked his visor up too. Wary eyes raked over my helmet-covered face. "You good?" he asked, his voice barely loud enough for me to hear.

Define good. I was about to set foot into a house that held nothing but bad memories for the first time in half a decade.

"You can drop me off here," I said, leaning back, albeit much too reluctantly. Funny how easily I'd gotten used to that warmth. And sitting on the back of a deathtrap.

One dark brow drifted up. "Do I look like a taxi to you?"

"Well, we'd have to get you a nice little yellow glow sign, but..." I tilted my head. "I could see it. Yeah, why not?"

His eyes narrowed. "I'm not dumping you in the middle of the woods."

"It's just down that road. Ten-minute walk, tops."

"Request denied, Cupcake. You can ditch me at the house."

Why did he have to be so...difficult? And why did it feel like he actually cared?

"Fine," I grumbled, pointing at the small black box hidden on a tree branch high above the gate. "But then we need to ditch the bike. The camera above the gate starts filming when you use the keypad."

He blinked at me. "Ditch...the bike?"

"This isn't..." I unclasped the helmet and pulled it off my head, suddenly more than a little annoyed at my own muffled voice. A breath of fresh country air later, I continued, "This isn't exactly inconspicuous, you know?"