THE BAD BOY BARGAIN

Chapter 13: Sirens and Promises

The kiss still burned on my lips—Jake’s taste, his grip, the way he’d said my name—but Kyle’s text ripped it away like a bad dream. “Cops at the house. Get here.” Jake’s face was a mask of panic as he shoved his phone in his pocket, helmet already in hand. “We gotta go,” he said, voice tight, swinging onto the motorcycle. I didn’t argue—just grabbed the spare helmet, my hands shaking as I climbed on behind him, arms locking around his waist.

The ride was a blur—wind biting my face, engine roaring louder than my thoughts. His jacket was cold against my cheek, but his body was tense, muscles coiled like he was bracing for a hit. We screeched onto Oak Street ten minutes later, and my stomach dropped—red and blue lights flashed across the chipped blue siding of 412, two cop cars parked crooked in the drive. Neighbors gawked from porches, and Kyle’s voice cut through, slurred and loud, arguing with someone.

Jake killed the engine, and I slid off, legs wobbly. He was ahead of me in a heartbeat, boots pounding up the steps. “Kyle!” he yelled, shoving through the open door. I followed, the air inside thick with beer and shouting.

Kyle stood in the living room, swaying, a cop gripping his arm while another barked orders. Glass littered the floor—another bottle, maybe—and the couch was flipped, stuffing spilling out. “Get off me!” Kyle snarled, jerking free, only to stumble into the wall. His eyes were wild, bloodshot, and he grinned when he saw Jake. “Little bro! Tell ‘em I’m fine!”

“What the hell did you do?” Jake snapped, stepping between Kyle and the cop—a broad guy with a buzz cut and a scowl. “Officer, he’s my brother. What’s going on?”

“Caught him smashing windows down the street,” the cop said, voice flat. “Drunk, disorderly, resisting. You his guardian?”

“No,” Jake said, fast, then faltered. “Our dad’s… gone. I look out for him.”

“Great job,” Kyle slurred, laughing, and Jake’s fists clenched. I stepped closer, touching his arm—light, steady—and he glanced at me, jaw ticking.

“He’s not usually like this,” I said, surprising myself, facing the cop. “He’s just… messed up tonight.”

The cop raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but the second one—a woman with a notepad—nodded. “Neighbors called it in. He’s got a record—petty stuff, but this is bigger. We’re taking him in.”

“No,” Jake said, voice breaking. “Let me handle it. He’ll sober up, I’ll pay for the windows—”

“Too late,” Buzz Cut cut in, cuffing Kyle’s wrists. Kyle swore, loud and sloppy, and Jake lunged, like he’d rip the cuffs off himself. I grabbed his jacket, pulling him back.

“Jake, stop,” I hissed, heart racing. “You’ll make it worse.”

He froze, breathing hard, eyes locked on Kyle as they dragged him out. The woman cop stayed, scribbling, then looked at Jake. “You’re eighteen?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice hollow.

“Get him a lawyer. Station’s downtown. He’s got a night in the tank, minimum.” She nodded at me—curt, not unkind—and left, sirens fading as they pulled away.

The house went silent, just the hum of the busted lamp and Jake’s ragged breaths. He sank onto the flipped couch, head in his hands, and I stood there, useless, the weight of it all crashing down. Lexi, Coach, now this—his world was unraveling, and I was tangled in it.

“Jake,” I said, soft, kneeling in front of him. “You okay?”

“No,” he muttered, not looking up. “He’s all I’ve got left, Mia. Dad bailed, Mom’s dead, and Kyle’s… this. I can’t fix it.”

My chest ached—Mom’s dead hit like a brick, new and raw. “You don’t have to fix him,” I said, touching his knee. “Just… be there. Like you are.”

He lifted his head, eyes red, wet, and it broke me—Jake Ryder, the bad boy, crying. “I’m screwing everything up,” he said, voice cracking. “Football, you, him—I can’t keep it together.”

“You’re not,” I said, fierce, grabbing his hand. “You’re fighting. For the team, for me. Kyle’s not your fault.”

He stared at me, searching, then pulled me up, into his arms. I hugged him back, tight, his face buried in my shoulder, shaking. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, muffled, and I squeezed harder, tears stinging my own eyes.

“You do,” I said, pulling back to look at him. “We’re a mess, but we’re in it. Right?”

He nodded, slow, a ghost of a smile breaking through. “Right.” His hand cupped my face, thumb brushing my cheek, and he kissed me—soft this time, slow, like a promise. I melted into it, the chaos fading for a breath, just us.

Then his phone buzzed again, sharp and insistent. He groaned, pulling it out, and froze. “Tyler,” he said, showing me: “Coach knows about Kyle. Test’s tomorrow. You’re done if you miss it.”

“s**t,” I breathed, the weight slamming back. “You have to go. The test—”

“I know,” he said, standing, pulling me up. “But Kyle—”

“We’ll figure it out,” I cut in, firm. “I’ll call Ellie, get a lawyer’s name. You focus on English. Pass it, stay on the team. Deal?”

He stared, then nodded, a spark of fight back in his eyes. “Deal.” He kissed me again—quick, fierce—and grabbed his keys. “Come with me?”

“Yeah,” I said, grabbing my bag. We ran to the bike, helmets on, and roared off—toward school, toward the test, toward whatever came next.

But as we hit the highway, lights flashed behind us—red and blue, again, closing fast.