The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

My Late Night Journey of Rediscovery: Leather, Lace, and a Near-Death Chase. A Freeway Fiasco with a Furious Biker.

Royce gunned the motorcycle through the night, twisting and turning through tree-lined country roads while I held onto him for dear life, appreciating the closeness more than I probably should.

He was resolute in his determination to safely get us back to the beach house before the impending storm arrived, the anxiety stemming from the broken living room window looming over him like an ominous, dark cloud.

Yes, I felt terrible about the broken window and any furniture that got damaged in the process. It was completely my fault, so I made a mental note to ensure that I covered the bill for the repairs.

He was accelerating with increasing velocity, the motorcycle cutting through the verdant landscape with breathtaking speed and the wind whipping past us in a blur of electronic colours, when suddenly, the engine stuttered, the mechanisms straining and the rumble waning.

Perplexed by the jarring noise and unexpected malfunction, I held onto him with all my strength, fearing that he was losing control of the vehicle.

My past accident rushed through my mind as the speed dropped, the motorcycle's wheels screeching and swerving back and forth in the middle of the fog-filled road.

The overwhelming stench of burnt rubber, laced with the sharp tang of petrol, invaded my nostrils, making my eyes water and nose burn.

I held onto him tightly, wrapping my arms around his waist, even as he slowed the bike to a stop, and I felt the tension release from my body, knowing that I was finally safe.

There was a strange comfort in the solid warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing against my cheek.

Royce let out a string of expletives as he directed the motorcycle off the road to a secure position on a random patch of overgrown grass.

I could not determine whether he deliberately turned off the engine or if it ceased functioning autonomously, but it was evident that our journey home had halted. He was pulling over to park for the time being.

Respiring a choppy breath, I stayed seated on the back. "Royce?"

"Empty fuel tank," he growled, raking a hand through his hair. And then, out of sheer frustration, he pounded his fist on the analogue gauge. "Son of a bitch!"

The unforeseen development presented a slight inconvenience, as returning to the beach house would entail a minimum of forty-five minutes on foot.

Still, I comforted him, gently rubbing the side of his arm, hoping he would not bite my head off. "We can arrange for a taxi to collect us."

He cast a reproachful glance over his shoulder. "I'm not leaving the bike."

"Well..." My mind grappled for a contingency plan. "Might I suggest contacting Chase or Mac? They have access to appropriate vehicles, if I recall correctly. Perhaps they could offer some assistance."

Royce agreed it was the best course of action. He pulled out his phone, tapping the screen with furious thumbs and encountering another problem.

"No signal," he muttered under his breath, dismounting from the bike to search for bars. "See if you have a signal."

I was already on it. I had the same problem with my connection.

"This is bullshit." His boots scuffed along the ground as he paced around, the phone gripped tightly in his hand. "It's okay. Don't panic. I will keep trying to get a signal. You just stay there and hang tight until I figure this out."