Page 28 of Bend

“Good.”

The breeze rolls in again, warm and salty, lifting the edge of the napkin beside my plate as the waves continue their steady rhythm beyond the deck.

And for the first time since I got here, it doesn’t feel like I’m just passing through anymore.

It feels like I’m stepping in.

Chapter Five

Thorne

BEST SONG EVER - ONE DIRECTION

The sponsor’s place sits right on the water like someone looked at a perfectly decent beach house and thought, nah, that’s far too subtle, then proceeded to build an absolute bloody palace instead.

It’s tucked along one of those quieter stretches past Davis Islands where the shoreline stops pretending to be normal and turns into a competition of who can spend the most money. Massive houses stacked along the bay like architectural ego trips, all sharp white stone and glass walls so big you could probably see your reflection from the bloody moon. And as if that wasn’t drawing enough attention, every goddamn balcony glows with soft gold lighting, so the whole place is polished and dramatic.

Like, mate, that’s a proper ‘tell me you’re compensating without actually saying it’ situation, innit.

The deck stretches halfway toward the sand, wide wooden planks running straight out from the house like it was specifically designed for people to stand around holding overpriced drinks while pretending they’re fascinating.

Palm trees sway lazily in the humid Florida air, leaves rustling like they’ve seen this nonsense before and aren’t remotely impressed. Their shadows slide across the long driveway as cars keep rolling in, headlights cutting through the darkness while engines hum, doors slam and more guests pile out looking like they’ve dressed specifically for the chance to be seen standing next to someone famous.

Music spills through the open glass doors of the house, bass thumping hard enough that you can feel it vibrating through the pavement under your feet. Whoever’s on the playlist right now has somehow landed on late-90s pop.

Honestly no complaints here. Probably the only fuckin’ reason I’m even still here.

I lean back against my bike near the edge of the drive, arms folded across my chest while I watch the whole circus unfold in front of me. People drift across the lawn in little groups of laughter, perfume and wildly misplaced confidence, like they’ve all collectively decided they’re much more interesting than they actually are.

Half of them look like they wandered in here because someone whispered the words professional racers and they figured they could compliment their way into our inner circle and score some sponsors by being seen with one of us.

It’s sad really, especially considering most of these blokes probably couldn’t tell the difference between a superbike and a lawn mower if you fuckin’ asked them.

The bikes are lined up beside us like a proper display anyway. Chrome catching the warm spill of light from the house. Black and green paint gleaming like polished glass under the driveway lamps. The engines are still warm from the ride over, ticking softly as they cool cool down.

Shit, they look better than half the guests here.

Probably ride better too.

Honestly, if one of these posh little wankers actually tried to throw a leg over one of these machines, I’d give him about five seconds before he panicked and launched himself straight into the ocean.

Which, if I’m being honest, might be the most entertaining thing to happen at this entire party.

Beside me, Wolfe’s sitting sideways on his bike, one boot planted on the pavement while the other rests on the peg, a beer hanging loose in his hand like he’s got nowhere better to be but also zero real interest in this place.

His hair’s doing that messy wave thing again, falling into his eyes every time he tilts his head. He pushes it back absently with his fingers while he watches the crowd.

The sleeveless white tee he’s wearing doesn’t exactly hide the fact that the bloke’s built solid. His arms are bare, muscle shifting easily under skin inked with dark tribal patterns that run from his shoulders down along his forearms and across his chest. The lines move when he lifts the bottle for another drink, the ink catching the warm spill of light coming from the house behind us.

There’s a thin silver chain resting against his collarbone that flashes faintly whenever he moves.

It’s a good look.

Annoyingly good.

Not that I’m sitting here analysing my teammate like some kind of creep. I’m just noticing things.

Normal things.