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.

“More like his memorabilia room.” She strolls over to a shelf lined with old CDs and starts tracing her fingers along the rows, reading the titles.

I shut the door then stand in the middle of the room, afraid to touch anything. “Maybe we shouldn’t be in here.”

“We’ll be fine as long as we put everything back in its rightful place.” She pulls a CD off the shelf, plucks the disc out, then gently places it into a stereo and presses play. Moments later, a grungy song fills the speakers.