My lips open on a question but snap closed just as quickly when I realise it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what he did to make her so angry. I hate that the question even formed in my mind.
Taken by surprise, Bronson turns towards me, eyeing me thoughtfully for a moment. Then he grins, the chilling thing wearing his skin dissolving in an instant. That cool smile that makes each girl’s legs turn to noodles moves across his cheeks, complete with his dimple, and he’s back to himself again. “Fuck school. Let’s all go get a feed.”
My mind won’t settle that easily though. There are too many questions about his mother. The bruises I’ve noticed on them often. Guilt hits me for not asking about them before. I presumed they were fighting other boys. My heart stutters on the feelings, the confuse-
“Your mind is far too impressive to be wasted on that thought,” he whispers to me.
Then he takes my mouth with his.
It’s a slow meaningful kiss, one that kicks the questions and concerns out of my mind and replaces them with nothing but this moment. The gentle, dominant motion of his lips on mine, filling me with tingles. His tongue licks mine while our collective breath mingles and dances.
He breaks our kiss and I inwardly sulk. Without further thought, he threads our fingers together and the air around me gets even sweeter, the feel of his fingers like a shot of euphoria.
And I know he is myfirstlove.
But looking at Bronson, as he steers me down the corridors and back outside towards the bike racks, his body strong and tall, his face chiselled in a beautiful way, I can’t imagine not loving him. Not laughing with him. Not playing.
Before I met Bronson, I would have never skipped school. Never wasted my time with a boy like him. Never wasted my time at all. Now, though, I’d follow him almost anywhere.
I sit on his handlebars, and he takes off down the road. His brothers flank us on their bikes. Turning right out of the junction, in the opposite direction from our houses, we head towards the center of town.
As we near the little restaurant we frequently go to, a little place that his family owns, he suddenly hits the brakes. An arm bands around my middle like a belt, only just keeping me stationary as we screech and slide along the road.
“Oh fucking perfect,” he sings from behind me, a hint of mischief lacing his voice. I drop from the bars just as he jumps off the seat. Swiftly, he picks up his bike and hurls it through the back windscreen of a parked red sports car. I nearly lose my footing, my eyes raking in the scene in utter shock.
“Bronson, no,” Xander says, stopping his bike beside me. Max appears on the other side of me, making no attempt to jump off his bike and stop his big brother, appearing completely content with the scene in front of him.
Half of Bronson’s bike now hangs out. The alarm bellows down the street, the whirling sound so close and loud, I cover my ears to protect them from what feels like tangible waves assaulting the delicate drum inside.
“What the fuck, Bronson?” I yell, peering around at the pedestrians. Some of them pull out phones, probably calling the police. I rush to Bronson, desperate to get away from the crime before anyone interferes, arrests him, or restrains him, but as I do, he pulls the bike from the window, separating an entire sheet of shattered glass from the frame. I freeze, not wanting to get in his way. He’s so incredibly strong, making the screen and bike look feather-light. The glass panel hits the road, still in almost one piece. The entire street has fallen into a strange state of quiet, making the car alarm a perpetual echo.
He laughs. “That’s a fucking good tinting job.” Jumping on to the bonnet, he lifts the bike above his head and slams it through the front screen. I try to ignore the people at the beauty parlour opposite us, as they press their hands to the glass, watching us.
I gape at Bronson, unable to move or form words, overcome with shock. He nods triumphantly down at his handiwork.
Raising his line of sight, he grins sweetly at the onlookers. “Sorry for the interruption everyone.”
As he jumps from the bonnet, the metal creaks, and I take a step back, unsure of what he’ll do next. But he just strolls casually up to me and threads our hands together again. His palm is warm, his breathing a little faster, more uneven.
“Sorry, baby, we’re gonna have to walk. Or you can ride with Max? Or I can carry you?”
I falter, assessing his cool, calm expression, his bright eyes as they sparkle with flecks of green in the piercing sunlight. I finally retrieve a few words. “Ah. . . What. The. Actual. Fuck?”
Studying my open mouth and blinking amber eyes, his dark-brown brows furrow in confusion. “Oh,” his tight forehead relaxes with realisation, “the car? It’s my mum’s.”
Shoshanna
Present Day
“Jesus,Shoshanna! That is the kind of guy you used to date? No wonder your dad was so hard on you. God, I hope our kids don’t get this rebellious side of you.” Perry huffs, riffling through his top drawer, searching for his tie pin.
Our kids.
Blinking ahead, I think about Bronson. About what we promised each other so many years ago. About how often we spoke of having a big family one day. We would be better than our parents, present and kind. We would fill our house with silliness and jokes and all our crazies.
My heart twists.
My stomach feels empty.