Ride or Cry

The Weight of a Secret

Chapter 8: The Weight of a Secret

Maya doesn't sleep. She lies on the maybe-blue quilt with her phone face-down on the dresser, staring at the ceiling, replaying those four words over and over.

I know where you are.

It could be a bluff. Derek was always good at bluffs. He once told her he'd bought her a car for her birthday — spent weeks building up the suspense — and then handed her a set of keys to a used sedan that smelled like cigarette smoke. It's the thought that counts, he'd said, laughing at her confused face.

But this isn't a car. This is her safety. Her fresh start. The first place she's felt safe in months.

And now he knows.

The sun rises eventually. It doesn't ask permission. Just spills through the duct-taped window, gold and indifferent, lighting up the cracks in the ceiling and the dust on the dresser. Maya watches it happen. She's still wearing yesterday's jeans. Her hair is a disaster. Her eyes feel like someone poured sand in them.

She should tell Knox.

She knows she should tell Knox.

But telling Knox means admitting that her past isn't staying buried. It means watching his face shift from calm to protective to something harder. It means becoming a problem instead of a person.

She's tired of being a problem.

There's a knock at her door. Not the one at the bottom of the stairs — this one is right here, three raps on the wood, firm but not impatient.

"Maya." Knox's voice. Low. Careful.

She doesn't answer. Maybe if she's quiet enough, he'll go away.

"You've been up there for an hour. Jesse says your lights never turned off."

Of course Jesse noticed. Jesse notices everything except personal boundaries.

She swings her legs off the bed. The floor is cold. Her socks have a hole in the left toe. She opens the door.

Knox is standing there in the narrow hallway, backlit by the weak morning light from the bathroom window. He's already dressed — black jeans, white t-shirt, the leather vest thrown over it like armor. His hair is damp. He smells like soap and coffee.

"You look terrible," he says.

"Good morning to you too."

"You didn't sleep."

It's not a question. She doesn't bother pretending. "No."

"Why?"

Maya's hand tightens on the doorframe. The lie sits on her tongue, heavy and familiar. Just nerves. Just the new place. Just the bed being too soft.

But she can't say it. Not to him.

"Bad dreams," she says instead. Which is true, technically. The text was a waking dream. A nightmare with a screen.

Knox studies her face. Those dark eyes miss nothing. They trace the shadows under her eyes, the tension in her jaw, the way she's holding the doorframe like it's the only thing keeping her upright.

"Okay," he says finally. "Come downstairs. Eat something. You can't work on empty."

She wants to argue. Wants to crawl back into bed and pull the quilt over her head and pretend the last twelve hours didn't happen. But her stomach growls — traitor that it is — and Knox's mouth twitches.

"That's a yes," he says.

"That's a hostage situation."

He turns and walks down the stairs, not looking back. He knows she'll follow.

She does.

The bar is empty this early. The chairs are still upside-down on the tables from last night's cleanup. The jukebox is silent. Morning light slants through the dusty windows, painting everything in shades of gold and gray.

Jesse is in the kitchen. She can hear him banging pans and muttering about eggs. Tank is at the booth, nursing a cup of coffee that's probably his fourth. Ghost is nowhere, which means he's everywhere.

Knox leads her to the bar, pulls out a stool, and pushes her onto it. Then he goes behind the counter and starts making breakfast. Not complicated breakfast — toast, scrambled eggs, a few slices of bacon that he burns slightly on purpose because he likes them crispy.

"I can cook my own food," she says.

"I'm sure you can. But you look like you'd burn down the kitchen right now, and I don't have the insurance for that."

She leans her elbows on the bar. Puts her head in her hands. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine. And that's okay." He slides a plate in front of her. The eggs are lumpy. The toast is darker than she'd like. But the bacon is perfect — crispy and salty and exactly what she needs. "Eat."

She eats. The food tastes like nothing, but she chews and swallows anyway. Her body needs fuel even if her brain is stuck on repeat.

I know where you are.

Knox leans against the bar across from her. He's not eating. Just watching. "You want to tell me what's really going on?"

"No."

"Okay."

That's it. Just okay. No pushing. No demanding. He accepts her no like it's a complete sentence, which it is, but most people don't treat it that way.

Maya puts down her fork. "Why aren't you asking more questions?"

"Because you'll tell me when you're ready. Or you won't. Either way, pushing won't help."

"You're very patient for a biker."

"I'm very patient for a human." He reaches across the bar and takes her plate. She's only eaten half. He doesn't comment. Just scrapes the rest into the trash and starts washing dishes. "You're going to work today?"

"I think so."

"Then work. The routine helps."

She watches his back. The way his shoulders move under the white t-shirt. The way the tattoos on his forearms flex with every scrub. He's so steady. So solid. Like a tree that's been through a hundred storms and decided to keep growing anyway.

"Knox?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you ever had someone from your past find you? Someone you didn't want to see?"

He stops scrubbing. Turns off the water. Dries his hands on a towel — not the blue one, never the blue one — and faces her.

"Yeah," he says. "Once."

"What happened?"

He's quiet for a long moment. His jaw works side to side, like he's chewing on the memory. "I handled it."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting right now."

Fair enough. She doesn't push. Just like he didn't push her.

Jesse comes out of the kitchen with a plate of eggs for himself and a scowl for the world. "You two are being weird. Stop it. It's too early for emotional honesty."

"We weren't—"

"You were leaning," Jesse says, pointing his fork at Maya. "He was leaning back. That's emotional honesty. It's disgusting. I'm going to eat my breakfast in the booth where I can't see you."

He stomps off. Tank mutters something that might be kids these days. Ghost appears in the doorway, takes one look at Maya's face, and disappears again.

Knox shakes his head. "Sorry about him."

"Don't be. He's right." She stands up. Her legs are wobbly, but they hold. "I'm going to go change. Then I'll be down to start the shift."

"Maya."

She pauses at the bottom of the stairs.

"Whatever it is," Knox says, "you're not alone anymore. You don't have to carry it by yourself."

She wants to believe him. Wants to dump the whole story — the text, the fear, the way Derek's shadow seems to stretch across state lines — right there in the middle of the bar. But the words won't come. They're stuck behind a wall she built years ago, long before Knox, long before Nowhere.

"Thanks," she whispers. And climbs the stairs.

In her room, she picks up her phone. The screen is dark. No new messages. She opens the text thread. The unknown number stares back at her.

I know where you are.

She blocks the number. Deletes the conversation. Puts the phone in the dresser drawer and closes it.

Out of sight. Out of mind.

That's how it works, right?

She's lying to herself. But it's the only kind of lying she has left.

End of Chapter 8