"How can you say that?" she asks, hurt crossing her face, scrunching her brow and shadowing her blue eyes.

I shrug. "I know why this shouldn't work. I knew before I ever walked up to you in Barrie’s. But I don't give a fuck. I'm falling for you. And I want to think you’re falling for me. But you can't even tell me why you're in my bar or what the hell it is you do on that fucking computer. I find out after three weeks that the girl I fucked two months ago is your roommate. I can't do this. I can't fall for you if you're going to pull away from me and keep secrets. Because I won't be able to put up with them forever and eventually, I'll want to know some shit you aren't willing to share. And by then, I'll be in too deep." I look at her, and shrug. Smile a tiny little smile. "If this thing doesn't work, I'd rather it fall apart now."

I slip out of the booth. She's still staring at me, her eyes wide and terrified. Why the hell does she look so scared? I shove that thought aside. It doesn't matter. Even if I asked, she wouldn't tell me. She doesn't tell me anything.

“You almost cheated on me. You tried to cheat on me. How the actual fuck did this become about me?” She demands.

“Because the only reason I went to her is because of the secrets. I fucked up, even thinking about it. But this isn’t all on me.”

I lean forward, "This has to be more than good sex and superficial conversation, Peyton. As fucking awesome as that is, I can't just do that." I wait for her to say something—any fucking thing—to stop me. But she doesn't.

She sits there in silence and watches me as I walk out of the deli.

Chapter 12 : After

Love--to me--

Is challenges and partners

And stories that make my heart skip

It's laughter and plans,

And dreaming.

(Rike’s poems to Peyton)

I’m worried about what I’m wearing.

Which, all things considered, is the stupidest thing in the world to worry about. But it’s ten and Rike will be here soon, and I want to look cute.

I’m in a wheelchair, and can’t remember who the hell I am and I’m rocking a cast on my leg and arm, and I’m more concerned about what an idiot boy who wants in my pants will think than where I fucking come from.

“It’s official, Collins. You’re a fucking idiot,” I mutter, brushing a lock out of my eyes.

I’ve put on makeup and my hair, though a bit scraggly, looks cute in its choppy piece around my face. For the first time in weeks, I feel vaguely human instead of like some desert island inhabitant.

It probably won’t last long. I grab my notebook and the phone, and shove them into my purse, and a knock on the door has my heart jumping into my throat. I blink and it comes again. This time it’s the kick I need to push myself forward and swing the door open for Rike.

He’s got two cups of coffee, and his grin is lazy as it tracks over me. “Why did the chicken cross the basketball court?”

I tilt my head, a smile rising, “Why?”

“He heard the ref calling fowl.”

I laugh, a surprised burst of noise, and he grins at me. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and the nerves in my belly dip.

“You ready?” I ask, and his smirk deepens as he nods.

“Take these,” he says, handing me the coffees and scooting around me. I catch the smell of him—crisp and soapy, with a hint of lead and smoke.

“Do you smoke?” I blurt as he pushes me out of the room.

He laughs softly, but doesn’t answer my question until we’re at the elevator and he can look at me. “No. I used to. But now it’s mostly just the smell of it in my clothes from gigs.”

I frown. “Gigs?”

He hesitates. “I’ll show you, in the truck.”

Curiosity mingles with nerves, and I nod, ducking and sniffing the coffee. It smell amazing and I make a tiny noise, almost a whimper.

“It’s for you, Peyton. Although. Next time I hear that noise, I’d like to be balls deep inside you.” I flush and Rike laughs. “God, that’s new.”

The little admission overrides my embarrassment, and my gaze snaps to his. “Is it?”

His gaze brightens, and he leans down as the door opens. Murmurs, “The first time I made you come, it was against my fingers on stage at Barrie’s.”

I bite my lip, trying very hard to stay still as that mental image works over me. “I find that highly unlikely,” I say finally and he laughs at the unsteady note in my voice. Bastard.

“Sweetheart, you were always a dirty girl with an exhibitionist streak. It’s one of the things I loved about you.”

I flinch at that word. And he catches it. It seems like he catches everything.

Tommy is at the check-in counter, and he grins when he sees Rike pushing me through. “He gonna bring you home, Pey?”

I nod, and he waves amicably as we exit the hotel. There’s a giant, hulking red truck, all shiny lines and clean leather interior, and Rike pushes me up to it. Eyes the truck and me. “I’m going to lift you in. Is that ok?”

When I'm settled and he's got my wheelchair in the back, he climbs in and reclaims his coffee. I'm quiet while he drives, watching him and taking in the truck.

It's clean, almost obsessively so. There is a notebook in the back, with two drum sticks and an open guitar case. I swivel to look at him, lifting my eyebrows.

He grins. "We play. Scott more than me—his record label hooked him up with a band, so he doesn't really need me the way he used to. But I still practice with him and do the occasional gig, especially for charity events. And I write all his songs, so I work closely with the band. It's how we met."

"I fell for a tattooed wannabe rock star?" I demand, disbelief thick in my tone. He laughs, a burst of surprise. Grins at me, and I shake my head. “You do realize that this is unlikely—I’m not that type of girl.”

“I used to think that. It’s why it took me three months to talk to you. Because I was pretty sure you weren’t the type to fall for a tattooed boy with a shit past and a guitar. But you were always full of surprises. I think this one surprised you as much as it did me. Because that’s exactly what you did. Fall for a bad boy with ink and a song.”

I stare at him, and I shake my head. “No.” His face tightens and I let out my breath. “I think you were always more than that. You’re a songwriter. You’re an artist. And the tattooed guitar might have caught my eye for a moment, but it would be who you are, not the pretty face you wear, that kept my interest.”

He glances at me, and there’s something new in his gaze. Wild hope that makes my chest tighten in a way that is almost painful. “That might be the most you thing you’ve said since you woke up, Fish.”

That nickname again. I open my mouth to ask about it, but we’re pulling up to the hospital, and he pulls us to a stop, sliding out of the truck almost before it fully stops. I see the grin on his lips when he does.

Slippery fucker likes his games.

***

Dr. Nedleman is fidgeting across from me. It’s the first time we’ve met in the neurologist’ office, and I come in on crutches, leg in a big black boot. It feels lighter than my cast, freeing, and still ungainly. I’ve knocked it on the wall three times already.

Rike sets my purse down next to me, and his blue eyes dart from the doctor to me and back again. Finally settle on me. “I’m gonna give you some time with Nedleman. Do you want to meet in Lindsay’s room when you’re done?”

I nod and flash a grateful, if tired, smile. He leans in, brushing a kiss over my hair, and then he’s slipping out of the room. I focus on Dr. Nedleman and not the feel of Rike’s lips and scratch of his beard.

“Are you having any breakthroughs, Peyton?” she asks hopefully.