Aliyah's POV
The ride back felt colder than the wind warranted. The salt air bit at my cheeks, but it wasn't the kind of cold that came from the weather. I kept my arms around Asher's waist, but only because I had to, not because I wanted to. My cheek rested against his back, and I could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath the worn leather of his jacket.
The road hummed under the tires, a low, constant vibration that seemed to echo in my chest. Every bump made my stomach twist tighter. My mind kept looping back to Jax's voice, the way my name had rolled out between him and Asher like a coin I hadn't meant to drop.
He didn't say much at first, and neither did I. The engine roared between us, louder than usual, swallowing anything unspoken.
Halfway down the narrow coastal road, he finally tried, raising his voice over the wind. "You're awful quiet. Thinking about pie? I told you it was terrible."
I didn't answer.
After a beat, he added, "Or are you mad I didn't order you bacon?"
I shifted just enough for him to feel it, hoping the movement carried every ounce of irritation I didn't put into words. He glanced back, caught the glare I aimed at him, and looked forward again.
He let out a short, sharp exhale, shaking his head. "Alright," he said finally, voice flattening. "You heard something."
The road curved, leaning us into a stretch where the cliffside dropped away to the left. Waves foamed against the rocks below, their crash faint beneath the growl of the bike.
"You gonna tell me what part made you look like you wanted to throw me in front of a truck?" he asked.
I stayed silent until we'd pulled into the sandy clearing near the tent. My legs were stiff from the ride. I slid off the bike and my boots sank into the soft ground, the grains shifting under me. Folding my arms, I kept my gaze fixed somewhere past his shoulder.
"You said my name," I said finally. "When you were talking to Jax."
He swung one leg over the bike, standing now. His gloves came off slowly, one finger at a time, like he was stalling for air before a plunge. "Yeah."
"And?"
His jaw tensed before he spoke. "He said someone's been asking about you. Back in Ember Pack."
The world tilted for a second, the horizon skewing. My mouth went dry. "Who?"
He hesitated just long enough for me to catch it, then shook his head. "Don't know yet."
I didn't believe him. "Could be anyone," I said, though my voice was thinner than I wanted. "Could be—"
"Your papa?" he guessed, his eyes locking on mine.
The way my chest constricted must have given me away, because he took a step closer, the grit crunching under his boots. "Or maybe someone else?"
I looked away, pretending to fuss with my jacket zipper. "It doesn't matter."
"It does if they're looking for you," he said, quieter now, but with a weight that made my throat ache.
Before I could come up with something sharp to throw back, the crunch of gravel shifted our focus.
Off the road sat a squat building with peeling white paint and a faded sign that read 'Ruthie's.'
The air smelled faintly of oil and frying dough. The bell over the shop door jingled, and out stepped a hunched woman with wiry gray hair tucked under a cap. Her cigarette glowed in the dim light as she studied us with the kind of squint that felt like it stripped you bare.
"You're the ones camped down on the south beach," she said, her voice raspy from years of smoke.
"Yeah," Asher replied, his tone easy.
Her gaze flicked over him, then me, lingering longer than I liked. A crooked smirk tugged at her mouth. "Two bikers in one week. Haven't seen that in years." She took a drag, exhaled smoke through her nose, and tapped ash onto the ground. "Heard the others asking about some runaway girl."
My pulse thudded in my ears. I forced a light shrug. "Small towns love stories."
Her laugh was a low, cackling thing. "And stories love small towns." She pointed her cigarette toward the road. "You kids be careful. People who go looking usually find something — even if it's not what they wanted."
She flicked the cigarette, stubbed it under her shoe, and went back inside. The bell jingled again before the door shut.
I didn't look at Asher. "She's probably just nosy."
"Probably," he said, though the weight in his voice told me he didn't believe it any more than I did.
The rest of the day unraveled in small, deliberate motions. I tightened the tarp on my tent, more to keep busy than because it needed it. Boiled water for tea I barely drank. Every time a vehicle passed on the distant road, my head turned without meaning to.
Asher worked on the bike again, crouched low with his head bent over the engine. A smear of grease traced the inside of his forearm, and the tendons in his hands flexed as he tightened something. There was a stillness in him when he focused like that — like the rest of the world didn't exist until he let it back in.
By nightfall, the wind had quieted. The fire we'd built earlier burned low, casting an amber glow that flickered over his face. Shadows danced in the grooves of his cheekbones, making him look older, sharper.
He said goodnight earlier than usual and disappeared into his tent.
I lay down, but sleep wouldn't come. My mind replayed Ruthie's words and Jax's voice until they blurred together. I watched the thin seam of moonlight at my tent's edge, listened to the faint slap of waves in the distance, the occasional snap from the fire.
Then — under all of it — I caught another sound.
A voice.
Low, muffled, close enough that I knew he'd stepped only a few yards away.
"…If it's him," Asher said, his tone colder than I'd ever heard, "I'll handle it."
My stomach tightened, and I froze, afraid that even the sound of my breathing might give me away.