Chapter 4: SWEET ESCAPE

✿MOANA✿

The world blurred into streaks of light and shadows as he pushed the bike faster, the engine roaring beneath us. My arms tightened around his waist instinctively, my chest pressed flush against his back, and I hated how natural it felt.

How right it felt.

We’d been riding for over an hour now with no clear destination, just endless stretches of road and the cool night air whipping past us. The wind stung my cheeks and tangled my hair, but I didn’t care. For the first time since moving into that suffocating mansion, I could breathe.

He took a sharp turn and accelerated, and my grip tightened reflexively. I felt his chest expand with a breath, I felt the rumble of satisfaction in his body, and knew he was enjoying this. Enjoying me clinging to him. Enjoying the control.

Bastard.

But I didn’t let go.

The city lights gave way to quieter streets, then back again, a rhythm of chaos and calm that matched the storm building in my chest. I should tell him to take me home. I should demand he stop playing whatever game this was. But the words wouldn’t come.

Finally, he slowed and pulled into a parking lot. I lifted my head and saw the neon sign glowing above us: Sweet Escape Ice Cream Parlor. He killed the engine and the sudden silence felt deafening.

"Ice cream," he said, swinging off the bike and pulling his helmet off. His hair was messy, falling into his eyes, and he looked infuriatingly good. "Thought you might be hungry."

I climbed off more carefully, my legs slightly unsteady. "You drove for more than an hour just to get ice cream?"

"I drove for more than an hour because I felt like it." He hung his helmet on the handlebar and looked at me. "The ice cream is a bonus."

I wanted to argue, wanted to tell him this whole thing was ridiculous, but my stomach chose that moment to growl.

What about the meal I had for dinner before this ride!

His smirk widened. "Come on, Queens. My treat."

He headed toward the shop without waiting for my response, and I followed because what else was I going to do? Stand in the parking lot alone?

The inside of the shop was bright and cheerful, all pastel colors and vintage decor. A handful of customers sat at small tables, and behind the counter stood a girl who looked about our age. Blonde, petite, with the kind of smile I immediately distrusted.

That distrust proved justified the second her eyes landed on him.

"Oh my God, Dylan." Her voice went up an octave, and she leaned forward on the counter in a way that pushed her breasts up. "I haven't seen you in forever."

Of course all girls know Dylan fucking Dickhead.

He stepped up to the counter, easy and confident. "Hey, Becca. How's it going?"

"Better now." She giggled and twirled a strand of hair around her finger. "What can I get for you tonight?"

"Caramel. Two scoops."

"Still your favorite." Her hand lingered on the counter, her fingers brushing dangerously close to his. "You know, I've been thinking about you."

"Yeah?"

"Definitely." Her smile turned suggestive. "We should hang out sometime."

My jaw clenched. Hang out for what? Of course this girl was one of his fangirls. Of course she is!

His smirk was lazy. "Maybe."

"I'm serious." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "Call me."

I cleared my throat loudly.

She finally acknowledged my existence with a brief, dismissive glance before turning her full attention back to him. "So just the one order?"

"She'll have something too," he said, gesturing to me without looking at me.

"Right." Her tone was flat now. "What do you want?"

"Chocolate," I said coldly. "Two scoops. And red velvet cake."

"Sure." She grabbed a scooper and got to work, her hips swaying as she moved. Every motion was exaggerated, performative, and he was watching with that lazy appreciation that made my blood boil.

We paid and found a small table near the window. She brought his ice cream first, her hand brushing his shoulder as she set it down. "Enjoy," she purred.

I wanted to stab her with a spoon.

He took a bite and leaned back in his chair, studying me with amusement.

"You're quiet."

"I'm eating."

"You haven't gotten your food yet."

"I'm waiting to eat."

"You're glaring."

"I'm tired."

"You're jealous." His grin was infuriating. "So Queens can actually be jealous. I didn't think you had it in you."

My hands clenched on the table. "Why would I be jealous of some bitch flirting with my step brother?"

"Good question." His eyes gleamed. "Why would you?"

I didn’t answer. Because admitting I was jealous meant admitting I cared, and I refused to give him that satisfaction.

She returned with my order, setting the chocolate ice cream and cake down with significantly less care than she'd used for his. "Here you go."

Then, as she turned, her elbow knocked his bowl clean off the table. Ice cream splattered across the floor in a sticky, caramel mess.

"Oh my God." Her hands flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with fake horror. "I'm so sorry. I'm such a klutz."

"It's fine," he said.

"No, no, it's not fine." She grabbed a handful of napkins and crouched down, her shirt riding up slightly. "You've got some on your jeans too. Come with me to the bathroom. I'll help you get it out before it stains."

My grip tightened on my spoon.

He stood, brushing at his jeans. "Yeah, alright."

"Perfect." She beamed and grabbed his hand, leading him toward the back of the shop.

I sat frozen, watching them disappear down a hallway marked Restrooms.

He was really going with her. He was actually going.

I stabbed my ice cream viciously and shoved a bite into my mouth. It tasted like nothing.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

I checked my phone. Scrolled through nothing. I took another bite of cake I didn’t want.

Fifteen minutes.

My chest felt tight, my throat burning with something I refused to name. This was ridiculous. He was my step brother. A playboy who fucked anything with a pulse. I didn’t care what he did or who he did it with.

Except I did.

And that made me angrier.

I stood abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. A couple at the next table looked over, but I ignored them and marched toward the hallway.

The bathroom doors came into view. Men’s on the left, women’s on the right. Both closed.

And then I heard it.

"Yes."

I stopped.

"Harder."

My stomach dropped.

"Ouch. Deeper."

The voice was high-pitched, breathy, unmistakably female. Unmistakably Becca.

"Just like that. Oh God, just like that."

I stood there, frozen, as the sounds continued. My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms.

He had brought me here. Rode me around for an hour, teased me, made me feel like maybe this was something… and then he’d gone into a bathroom to fuck a girl.

The anger hit me like a tidal wave, hot and vicious and all-consuming.

I turned on my heel and walked back into the main area of the shop. My hands were shaking as I pulled out my phone and opened a ride-share app. Three minutes away.

Perfect.

I grabbed my bag, left the half-eaten food on the table, and walked out into the night air. It was cooler now, sharp against my skin, but I barely felt it.

I stood on the sidewalk, arms crossed, staring at the road. My phone buzzed with the driver's update.

Two minutes away.

Behind me, music from the shop drifted out into the night. Laughter from inside. Normal people having normal nights.

And Dylan fucking the slutty bitch called Becca.

One minute away.

My jaw clenched. I refused to cry. I refused to let this mean anything.

A car pulled up to the curb. My ride.

I opened the door and climbed in.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

I rattled off Richard's address, my voice steady despite the rage burning through my veins.

The car pulled away from the curb, and I didn’t look back.

Why did it hurt? I was aware of his playboy lifestyle in school, I knew he had fucked almost all the girls but why does this one hurt?

“Ma'am are you okay?” the driver asked, handing me wipes.

That was when I realized I’d been crying.