Chapter 6: Throttle and Thighs
Rebel’s gaze swept over her three friends, pausing for a fraction of a second on Lindi’s triumphant grin. He gave a short, sharp nod. “I’ve got her.” The words weren’t a question, and the look in his eyes—focused, dark—dared them to object.
“Get her home safe, tech-wizard,” Shantel purred, winking as if this were all a delightful game.
Cora, ever the quiet sentinel, just watched, her eyes moving from Sammy’s pale face to Rebel’s controlled posture. “Check the footage,” she said, her voice low and serious. “When you trace the number. Check the entrance cameras from thirty minutes ago. See if anyone was watching her leave.”
Rebel’s eyes flickered with a new, colder interest. He gave Cora a second, more considering nod. “Already on the list.”
“Okay, okay, enough with the spy talk,” Lindi cut in, flapping her hands. “Go! Have your dramatic motorcycle escape. We’ll get an Uber.” She stepped forward and squeezed Sammy’s arm, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “Text me everything. Everything.”
Sammy nodded, numb. Rebel turned and walked back to the idling machine. He retrieved a sleek, matte-black helmet from a storage compartment and held it out.
Rebel handed Sammy the spare helmet, his fingers brushing hers in a delicate, lingering touch that electricity up her spine. It wasn't an accident. His thumb pressed against the inside of her wrist, a point of contact that felt like a brand. The cool plastic of the helmet was a shock against her flushed skin.
He watched her fumble with the chin strap, his own helmet already on, the dark visor down, transforming him into an anonymous, menacing silhouette. Just like the thirst trap she looks at on Instagram. He swung onto the bike, the leather of his jacket creaking. The engine’s low growl was a living thing beneath him.
“Ready?” he asked, his voice slightly distorted through her helmet.
Rebel swung a leg over the bike, settling into the seat with a practiced, fluid motion. The machine dipped slightly under his weight. He looked over his shoulder at her, his gaze unreadable behind the visor of his own helmet. “Get on.”
She approached the beast, the heat from the engine baking her legs through her skirt. The seat was narrow. She put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself—the leather of his jacket was cool, but the muscle beneath was solid as rock—and swung her leg over. She settled behind him, leaving a careful, polite inch of space between her body and his back.
His hands came back, grasping her knees, pulling her tighter against him. The intimacy of the gesture was shocking, making Sammy lose her mind.
“Hold on tight, little ghost,” he said, the old nickname—from a Halloween years ago when she’d dressed as a sheet ghost—sounding different now in this context. Darker. Softer. He didn’t sound concerned. He sounded happy.
For a few blocks, it was just the surreal sensation of speed, of leaning with him into turns, of the city lights blurring into streaks. The fear of the texts, the awkwardness with her friends, the memory of the stranger’s kiss—it all got blasted away by the sheer physicality of the ride. She was plastered against Rebel Gage, and every nerve ending was on fire.
They were approaching a yellow light at a wide intersection. He could have coasted. He should have stopped. Instead, he gunned it, the bike leaping forward with a savage snarl, pinning her to him as they shot through just as the light bled to red. The acceleration was brutal, glorious. She let out a choked gasp, her helmet knocking against the back of his.
She had no time to recover.
A delivery truck was double-parked a block down, narrowing the lane. Cars were coming the other way. There was space, just enough, but it required a sharp, precise maneuver. Instead of slowing, Rebel accelerated again, aiming for the gap. At the last possible second, just as her arms locked around him in pure instinctual terror, he slammed on the brakes.
The world pitched. Her body, already connected to his, became a single entity with his. She slammed into him, hard. Her chest crushed against his back, her hips pressed flush against his, her thighs gripping the seat with a force that was anything but polite. The friction was immediate, shocking. A bolt of pure, undiluted heat shot through her, landing low in her stomach. It wasn’t just fear. It was desire.
He held the brake for a fraction of a second too long, letting her feel the full, welded length of her body against his. She felt him breathe. She felt the solid reality of him.
Then he released the brake and threaded the bike through the gap with effortless, terrifying grace, accelerating smoothly once they were clear.
He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.
Her face was burning inside the helmet. Her whole body was singing with the aftershock. Every inch where she touched him felt branded. She didn’t loosen her grip. She held on, her previous nervousness replaced by a dizzying, breathless awareness.
The rest of the ride was a different kind of tension. He didn’t brake-check her again, but the memory of it hung between them, a third passenger on the bike. She was hyper-conscious of every shift of his weight, every lean into a curve, the way her body moved with his now, a responsive, learned rhythm. The vibration between her thighs was a constant, low hum, a teasing echo of that sudden, violent press.
He took the curves of the hills fast, the lights of the sprawling city falling away below them until they were climbing into the darker, quieter streets of the heights. The houses got bigger, set further back, their gates more imposing.
The Kawasaki’s engine fell silent in the circular driveway, the sudden quiet a shock after the roar of the wind and the bike’s mechanical snarl. The Jade mansion loomed before them, a geometric sculpture of glass and shadow against the night sky, its exterior lights casting cold pools on the manicured gravel.
Rebel dismounted first, his boots crunching on the stones. He turned and offered a hand, his expression unreadable in the ambient glow from the house. Sammy took it, her fingers still tingling from clutching his waist for the entire dizzying ride. Her legs felt like water.
“You good?” he asked, his voice low. He didn’t let go of her hand immediately.
“Yeah. Just… wobbly.”
“Adrenaline.” He finally released her, turning to secure the bike. “And maybe that last shot Shantel probably bullied you into.”
He followed her to the vast, pivot-front door, its surface a sheet of darkened steel. She pressed her thumb to the discreet biometric panel. A soft click echoed in the night. He stepped inside behind her, his presence filling the sterile, vast foyer. The polished marble floor reflected the minimalist chandelier, a constellation of sharp glass points above them. The house was quiet, a vacuum-sealed silence so different from the club’s thrumming energy.
“You want a drink?” she asked, heading toward the open-plan living area, her knee-high platform boots echoing.
“Water,” he said, his eyes scanning the room—the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city’s glittering grid, the curated art on the walls, the expensive emptiness of it all. He knew this space intimately. He’d personally overseen the installation of every hidden camera, every motion sensor in the ceilings. The knowledge was a cool, secret weight in his chest.
She returned from the kitchen with two glasses of water, condensation already beading on the crystal. He’d taken off his leather jacket and draped it over the back of a low, charcoal-colored sofa. He sat in the corner of it, an arm stretched along the back, claiming the space without seeming to try.
Sammy sat beside him, leaving a careful foot of cushion between them. The distance felt both too vast and impossibly small. She placed her clutch on the glass coffee table, the phone inside it suddenly feeling like a live wire.
Rebel took a long drink of water, then set his glass down with a definitive click. “Let’s see them.”
She pulled out her phone, her thumb finding the fingerprint sensor. The screen illuminated her face in the dark room. For a moment, she hesitated, the invasion of it all washing over her again. Then she unlocked it, opened the message thread with the unknown number, and handed it to him.
Their fingers brushed. A deliberate, fleeting point of contact he allowed himself.
He took the phone, his gaze dropping to the screen. His expression remained neutral, a mask of focused concentration as he read the words he himself had typed hours ago.
He scrolled, his jaw tightening just a fraction—a performance of concern. Inside, a dark warmth spread. He saw his own words through her eyes. They had landed. They had frightened her. They had touched her. The power of it was a heady, poisonous thing.
“This is intrusive,” he said finally, his voice flat, analytical. He kept the phone, turning it slightly in his long, ringed fingers. “The reference to the guy you kissed… that’s specifically designed to unnerve you. To make you feel watched.”
“It worked,” she admitted, tucking her legs beneath her on the couch. She was closer now, drawn in by the gravity of his focus.
“The good news is, it’s almost certainly someone who was at the club tonight. Someone who saw you.” He looked at her, his eyes sharp in the dim light. “The bad news is they got your number. That doesn’t happen by accident.”
“What do I do?” The question was a whisper.
He leaned back, stretching his arm further along the couch back. His fingertips came to rest just inches from the curve of her shoulder. He could feel the heat from her skin. “I can run the number. Even if it’s a burner, there are patterns. Digital footprints. It’ll take some digging.” He said it with a casual certainty, the lie smooth and comforting. “Caleb was right to call me. This is my lane.”
“Thank you,” she said, her eyes wide and guileless. The trust in them was a physical ache. He wanted to fall into that trust, to confess everything. Instead, he fed the lie.
“Don’t thank me yet.” He offered a half-smile, a rare, lazy gesture that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m gonna need access to your phone for a bit. To set up a trace if they text again.”
“Okay.”
“And you’re not going back to Blood. Or any club like it. Not until we figure this out.”
She nodded, a lock of hair falling across her cheek. He had the sudden, violent urge to tuck it behind her ear. He didn’t move.
“Scared you, though, didn’t it?” he asked, his voice dropping, becoming something quieter, more intimate. A test.
“Yes.” She swallowed. “But also… it felt…”
He waited, every muscle still.
“Personal,” she finished. “Not random. Like they knew me.”
He held her gaze, allowing a beat of silence to stretch between them. His fingertips drifted from the couch back, barely grazing the dark mesh at her shoulder. A ghost of a touch. “Maybe they think they do.” He let the implication hang, a dark, tempting thread. He watched her breath catch, saw the flush spread from her neck to her cheeks. She was leaning into the touch, into the perceived danger of the stranger, completely unaware the real danger was the man beside her, tracing circles on her shoulder with a touch so light it might have been the air conditioning.
He was playing with fire, stoking a fear he himself had created, just to feel the heat of her attention, her dependency. It was a corrupt, perfect loop.
“You should get some sleep,” he said, withdrawing his hand abruptly, breaking the spell. He needed to stop. The line between watching and touching was blurring, and the blur was intoxicating. He handed her phone back, his control locked back into place. “I’ll take this, run it through some stuff at my place. I’ll let you know if anything pops.”
She looked almost disappointed as he stood, retrieving his jacket. The loss of his proximity was a sudden chill. “You’re leaving?”
“Better to start this now,” he said, shrugging the leather back on. The familiar weight felt like armor. “Lock up behind me. Set the alarm. The one I installed, not the basic one. You remember the code?”
“Your birthday,” she said softly, standing as well.
He paused, a genuine flicker of surprise crossing his features before he schooled them back to neutrality. “You remembered.”
She just looked at him, a world of unspoken things in that look. The crush he’d always been aware of was wide open, vulnerable in the aftermath of her fear.
He walked to the door, and she followed, a silent shadow. He stepped out into the night air, a cooling relief. He turned back before the door closed. She was framed in the light, looking small in the vast doorway.
“Sammy?” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Call me from the land-line when you’re in your room. Door locked.” It was an order. A protector’s order. A stalker’s request.
“I will.”
He gave a single, slow nod. “Sweet dreams, little ghost.”
He turned and walked to his bike, the weight of her phone in his pocket like a confession. He had her device. He had her fear. He had her trust. He started the engine, the violent sound shattering the mansion’s quiet peace, and rode into the night, the secret of his own words burning a hole in his conscience he had long since learned to ignore.