Life Before Damaged Vol 7 :The Ferro Family (Life Before Damaged #7) (8 page)

"I'm really sorry. I’ve never done something like that before." I grimace.

His eyes lift slightly, meeting my gaze with mischief.

"I figured as much, but there’s no need to lie to me.”

My heart races as he steps closer to me. He tips his head to the side and offers an equally crooked grin.

“You enjoyed bashing my bike, and it’s okay—I deserved it. I'll just throw this one out and go buy a new one tomorrow."

My face scrunches up. "A new bike? You’re just going to leave it in the trash for the garbage guys? What the hell, Ferro?" I’m about to go off on him for being a spoiled brat, but he starts laughing.

"No, a new light. What the hell is wrong with you? Do you get a new car every time you get a ding?" He’s smiling so hard that I can see a dimple on his cheek.

I smile coyly and look at my shoe.

"You think I’m soft, don’t you?"

His smile widens. I expect him to tease me, to say something that makes me laugh. He looks at my hair and lifts the lock that keeps falling in my eyes.

Pushing it back, he says, “Not at all. Not even a little. I think you’re stronger and more alive than anyone I’ve ever met—you just don’t know it yet.” His azure gaze locks with mine, searching for something I’m sure is absent.

I smile. “That’s a nice thought, but it belongs on a greeting card.”

He shakes his head and looks down at his helmet. His voice deepens. “You’re finding yourself, and that’s fine. You’re figuring out what your limits are and how far you’re willing to go to get what you want.”

“So are you.” Pete laughs like it’s not true. “You don’t see it either, but you will.”

He smirks and touches my arms lightly. “If the moment passes me by, be sure to take a picture. I have a really good relationship with a lot of city photographers.”

I look at his hand on my arm and then back up into his face. He lets his fingers slip away. I pretend it did nothing. This is going to be my life—a series of lies and smiles—until I’m utterly devoid of any feeling whatsoever.

“I better get going.” Pete nods. I hold up my phone. “I’m going to call a cab. You want me to get one for you too?”

“What do you mean?" He looks at me like I’ve grown an extra head. “I’m going back home on this baby.”

Of course, he is. I give Pete a bit of a concerned scowl, but he turns his back to me and walks toward his bike. There’s no use in trying to convince him otherwise. He’s reckless and couldn’t care less what happens to him. Maybe that’s why he fights so much.

He swings his leg over, straddles the bike and makes the engine roar to life. I never used to like motorcycles. They represent hoodlums and delinquency. Now, the sound reminds me of Pete. A hoodlum and delinquent, but a friend who somehow needs me.

“Pete!” I call out to him before he puts his helmet back on. He turns around and looks at me, his blue eyes look tired instead of alive and full of life.

“You’re not your father, you know. You’re you. You don’t have to try so hard to be like him if you don’t want to.”

Pete looks at the cloudless sky. He closes his eyes for a moment and when he looks back down at me, his gaze cuts through me like a carving knife. It’s the cocky, arrogant, Pete-the-player look. The hunter, hungry for his next prey. The man who sat in the stripper's chair, waiting to be devoured.

“Yes, I do.”

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