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She clutches me, presses our bodies together, my softening cock starting to slip out of her. “I won’t, Oz. I swear to you, I promise you on my life, on my soul, on everything I am. I’ll never…never hurt you, never leave you. ” She pulls away so I can see the truth in her eyes. “I love you, too, Oz. I’ll never want anything or anyone but you. Not ever. I never will. ”

“Me, neither, sweetness. ” I hold her tight. “Me, neither. ”

After a moment, Kylie starts to wiggle, and she slides gingerly off the bike, wincing. “I’m…a little messy now. ”

I lean back and dig a spare T-shirt out of the saddlebags. It’s old, and not in the best shape, but it’s clean. I hand it to her, and I watch her clean herself, folding the shirt and then handing it back to me. I stuff it back into the saddlebags, and watch her dress.

When we’re both dressed, we lie on the grass at the side of the road, staring up at the stars, talking. We talk about performing, about songs to cover, about possibly getting a record deal this quickly. We talk about all this, and everything is “we” and “us. ” We’re planning a future together. Going on tour, possibly. All sorts of possibilities, and the future we plan is bright and perfect and hopeful.

Sometime past one in the morning, we decide to head back. We stop once for gas, and for a quick bite at McDonald’s. I’m a little tired, so I get a large Coke, and drink it all. We’re back on the road again, and I’m only now realizing how far we really went. We must have driven a good two, two and a half hours outside of Nashville. It’s a longer drive home than it felt on the way out, but it was all worth it. Kylie holds me tightly, rubbing my chest and stomach, nuzzling against me.

Then it happens so fast. So fucking fast. I’m on the freeway, passing beneath an overpass, approaching an on-ramp. A semi rumbles beside me, blocking my path to the left. He’s seen me, I know that much, but it’s not him I’m suddenly worried about. It’s the sleek red Corvette roaring onto the freeway from the on-ramp. He doesn’t see me. My heart is hammering suddenly. I brake hard, but it’s not enough. He’s in my space, I’m caught in his blind spot, he’s not even looking. I can see him texting with one hand, the detail burning into my panicked brain. I can see the glow of the screen on his face, a hint of red and black leather seat, a profile of a face, the instrument panel, one hand on the wheel, the other holding his phone, not paying attention, not seeing me. Not seeing us. Kylie’s gripping me with clawed fingers, and I know she’s starting to realize the danger now. The semi doesn’t move, not realizing the problem.

Seconds split and fracture, splintering into moments, into individual pumps of my heart. Breathe—breathe—breathe. What do I do? Gun it? Try to squeeze past them both? Not enough room. I’m trying not to panic, but I am. I hit the brakes, praying with all my non-believing heart that I can hold it steady. The semi roars past, and the Corvette slips ahead of me. I’m in the clear, I think. I sigh in relief. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.

Only, another semi is behind me, loud and huge, horn blaring, tires squealing, groaning as it tries to slip to the left of me, but there’s a car there and he can’t, and I’m already braking, close to losing it. I have no choice but to swerve away, onto the shoulder. My heart is about to vomit out of my throat, adrenaline crashing like thunder, fear slamming like tribal drums.

Kylie is screaming. My back tire is skipping, sliding, bouncing. I’m losing it. I’m gonna lose it. I’m gonna put it down. Thank god I’d brought the bike down to less than forty, but it’s going to be bad. I remember the training from the class: go limp. Don’t tense. But Kylie. Kylie. Shitfuckgoddammit, no, Kylie…

I feel the back tire going out from beneath us. The bike is sliding sideways. I let it drop, let it go, let it slide away sideways. No time for anything else, no choice, nothing but this happening in slow tragic awful motion, entirely too fast to stop.

fuckohfuckohfuck

Moments shred, and then time stops.

I feel the ground hit, force myself to stay limp, loose. I’m on my ass, sliding, and the bike is skidding away, and I feel Kylie, hear her screaming. Momentum starts to roll me. As I twist, I see Kylie. Instinct rather than choice causes me to grab her. Crush her to my chest as hard as I can. Cradle my arms around her body, tense them like bars around her fragile form.

I’m rolling. Pain. Fracturing time. Tumbling rolling spinning sliding. A bounce, and my grip on Kylie is broken. I watch her flip and twist away from me, and then my own sight is ground-sky-ground-sky and agony is lancing through me, and finally I stop, on my face.

I can’t breathe, can’t move, but I have to get to her.

Someone is screaming: “KYLIE! KYLIE! ” It’s me—I’m screaming. Hoarse, raw, desperate.

“Oz…” I hear her, barely audible, breathless. But I hear her.

I crawl. I can’t get my legs to work, and my arms won’t cooperate, either. All is pain. Something hot and sharp is slicing at my elbow, my upper arm. My knees. But I have to get to her. I crawl anyway and refuse to look at my body, refuse to acknowledge the damage. Grit is bitter in my mouth. I spit, taste blood, salty and tangy and slippery and warm. I’m gasping, and sand and dirt spray away from my mouth and nose, settle on my tongue and in my nostrils. Scrabble on the asphalt, feel fingernails ripping, tearing, toes pushing and knees sliding. A foot. Two. Four.

There she is. Thank god I made her put on her leather jacket. It’s a thin thing, expensive, soft leather, but it protected her skin. Her jeans are shredded and red, but she’s writhing, and I don’t think her legs are broken. “Kylie…Kylie. I’m—I’m here. ” I reach her, blink, blink against the sweat. Or maybe it’s blood in my eyes. I don’t know. She’s gasping, dragging in shuddering breaths. “Kylie. Breathe. Please, breathe. ”

She’s got the helmet on still, a full-coverage cheap black helmet. I fumble at it, and she helps me tug it off. Her hands are bleeding, knuckles red and scraped and raw. “Oz? ” The helmet rolls away, crunching in the road grit on the shoulder. Sweat pastes her hair to her face. Her eyes frantic, searching, seize on mine. “Oz? ”

I reach out, brush at her hair, lying on my stomach, one elbow braced beneath me. My fingers, as they touch her face, are dripping blood, the nails ripped off. “Where are you hurt, Kylie? Talk to me, talk to me, baby. ”

“You—you’re bleeding. ”

“I don’t care. I’m fine. ” I rake my eyes over her body, hunting for breaks, blood. “Are you okay? Are you injured? ”

“I can’t—can’t catch my—my breath. ” She’s opening her mouth, sucking in short, desperate breaths. “Chest, hurts. Ribs. ”

“Don’t move, okay? Just try to breathe, little breaths. ” I flop onto my back, groaning as the impact sends spears of agony through me. I dig in my hip pocket for my phone. It comes out in pieces, smashed. “You—you have your phone? ”

“Jack—jacket…ins—inside pocket. ” She’s shaking, blinking, fighting for breath, and I don’t fucking know what to do.

I unzip her coat, gingerly. Find the phone in the inside pocket, intact. Lift her shirt, see bruises already forming on her ribs, something looking out of place. Broken, maybe. Jesus fuck. Don’t let her lungs be punctured. Please. Please. Let her be okay. I don’t even know who I’m pleading with, but the thoughts ramble through my head, unstoppable. It all falls apart into pleasepleaseplease.

I dial 911.

“Nine-one-one what’s your emergency? ” A calm male voice, neutral.

“Motorcycle accident. On I-40. ” I peer behind me, and I can just barely make out the exit number. I tell her.

“Is anyone hurt? ”

“Yeah. My girlfriend. I think—I think she broke her ribs. I don’t know. She’s having trouble breathing. ”

“And you, sir? Are you okay? ”

“I don’t—I don’t know. I don’t fucking care. Just get someone here. Help her. Please. Help us. ”

“Units are en route to your location, sir. Can you tell me your name? ”

“Oz. My name is Oz. ”

“Oz what? ”

“Oz Hyde. ”

I glance at Kylie, who is still taking short gasps for breath, her eyes hunting for me. I drop the phone, reach for her hand, squeeze. I hear a tinny voice calling my name. I fumble the phone back to my ear.

“Sir? Sir, are you there? Oz? ”

“I’m—I’m here. ”

The man asks me a series of questions, and I answer them all, but I’m only really paying attention to Kylie, to watching her face, her blue-tinged lips, her chest shifting shallowly with each tiny panting breath. Our eyes never leave each other, and her hand squeezes mine, weakly.

“Kylie? Keep squeezing my hand. I’m here. You’ll be okay. We’ll be okay. ” I blink, and this time the salty wetness sliding down my face is tears, not blood. I don’t care. I have no thoughts but that Kylie makes it through this okay.

I hear sirens in the distance, getting closer. Lights flash, tires skid and crunch, doors open, voices speak in calm tones, I see blue uniform-clad bodies crouching beside Kylie, shining a flashlight in her eyes, probing at her ribs, fitting an oxygen mask to her face. A young, clean-shaven, acne-scarred face fills my vision, calm brown eyes. “Sir? You’re Oz? ”

I nod. “Yeah. Kylie…is she—is she okay? Will she be okay? ”

He shines a light in my eyes. “Yes, sir. She’ll be okay, I promise. ”

I twist to watch them load Kylie onto a stretcher, lift her into the ambulance. Now, finally, I can feel my own pain. And suddenly, whiteness and heat and pain shoot through me, as if it was waiting in the wings, waiting until I knew Kylie was okay, taken care of. And now it’s blazing through me, and I’m dizzy, can’t see, can’t breathe, can’t move, blinking, gasping, see stars, and they’re replaced by a roof, lights, walls, the interior of an ambulance. Something hard touches my nose, around my mouth, and I feel cool oxygen filling me, and I can almost see, almost breathe. Hands do things to me. Touch me, cut away my pants. My shirt. I’ve still got Kylie’s phone clutched in my hand.

There is a sense of motion. I need Kylie. Need to see her. Need to talk to her, need to know she’s okay. I need to call her parents, tell them I almost got her killed, that I got her hurt, that I couldn’t protect her, couldn’t keep her safe.

I replay what happened in my head. I can see each individual second of the accident, remember what I did, and think about what I could have done differently. Nothing. That’s what. Nothing. I couldn’t have done anything differently. But…if she hadn’t been on that bike with me, this wouldn’t have happened.

Guilt and fear and pain all twist together, form a shredding ball of barbed wire in my chest, and I’m barely cognizant as the ambulance interior is replaced briefly by the entrance of a hospital, and then the white walls of a hallway. I don’t know what’s happening, or what’s wrong with me, and I don’t care. All I know is Kylie is hurt, and I have to find her.

I see a face above me, female, older, care-lined eyes, sharp and gray and intelligent. “Kylie? Where is she? ”

“She’s being attended to, Mr. Hyde. Please, be still. Let us take care of you. ”

“I need…I need to see her. I need to know she’s okay. Will she be okay? ” I’m begging, fighting to get off the bed, but hands hold me down. “Just tell me she’ll be okay. ”

“Miss Calloway will be okay. She’s alive, and she’s getting the best care we can give. We’ll let you see her as soon as we can. You have to let us take care of you, Mr. Hyde. ”

But I can’t calm down. Panic and desperation ripple through me, force me to move, to thrash, and I’m being held down; I feel a poke in my arm, and then darkness swallows me.

I wake up, and my arm is in a cast, resting on my chest. I’ve got bandages on my other arm, hands, on my legs. My forehead feels tight, burns. The pain is a vise, clenching all of me in an unrelenting grip. I try to breathe, and look around. I see Mom, asleep in a chair, her long legs stretched out, head lolling on her shoulder. She’s snoring gently, a light, feminine rasp. I can see the circles under her eyes from her, the worry on her face even as she sleeps.

My mouth is dry, tight, and my throat burns. My eyes are scratchy. I shift and twist on the bed, find the call button and press it. Within minutes a nurse appears, a small, compact woman with brown hair tied back in a bun.

“Mr. Hyde. How are you feeling? ” Her voice is a low murmur.

“Like hell. It hurts. I’m thirsty. ”

“I’ll get you something for the pain and some water. ” She starts to turn away.

I grab her arm. “Kylie. I need—I need to see Kylie. ”

“Let me get you something for the pain, and then I’ll see about bringing you to see her. ”

I know better than to argue. My best bet is to cooperate and let them bring me to her. I slump back in the bed, blinking against the pain, watching Mom sleep.

What feels like an hour passes, and then the nurse returns, and I see her name tag hanging from a clamp attached to the pocket of her scrubs shirt. Marie King, RN, LPN. Her picture looks nothing like her, but such pictures rarely do. She hands me a small paper cup with two large white pills in it, and a cup of water. I swallow the pills, drink all of the water, and set it aside, shift higher in the bed.

“Your girlfriend just woke up as well. I’ll bring you to her. ” Marie moves across the room and unfolds a wheelchair, brings it to me. “Now, don’t try to be a tough guy. Let me help you, okay? ” She smiles at me, and I slide my legs over the side of the bed, let her put her shoulder underneath my arm.

She’s a hell of a lot stronger than her small frame would suggest, lifting me almost without my help off the bed, to my feet, and then keeping me balanced as I twist and lower myself into the chair. Any thoughts of walking myself to Kylie’s room vanish with that brief effort. Everything hurts. I’m sweating and out of breath. My chest aches and my ribs seem tight, sending rocketing lances of pain through me as I move. The pills are working, though, and I’m feeling less of the pain. I’m lighter, and a little dizzy. It’s nice.

Mom wakes up, stretches, yawns, and then sees me. “OZ! ” She lurches to her feet, falls to her knees beside my wheelchair. “God, baby, I—I was so worried. ”

I let her hug me, and I hug her back, and it’s the first time in at least ten years that a hug between us isn’t awkward. “I’m okay, Mom. ”

“What happened, Oz? ” She’s brushing my hair away from my face. It’s loose around my shoulders, and I hate it.

I pull it back with one hand, grimacing as that motion shoots pain through me, harsh despite the medicine. “I got cut off on the I-40. This asshole in a Corvette. He didn’t even look as he got on the freeway. He was fucking texting. Never even saw me. A semi was on the other side, so I couldn’t avoid him, and there was another semi behind me. Hit the shoulder, tire went out from beneath me. I couldn’t—there wasn’t anything else I could do but put it down. ” I blink against the tightness in my throat as I recall the accident.

Flashes of memory hit me like lightning. The driver of the Corvette, face lit by the glow of his phone. The semi behind me, so close, blaring its horn and trying to swerve. I don’t even know if anyone stopped to help, to see if we were okay. I don’t remember seeing anyone, but my memory is hazy. All I remember is pain, and Kylie bleeding and trying to breathe, and my bike in the distance, tire spinning.

I blink again, and try to shake the images away.

Fuck.

“I couldn’t do anything, Mom. It was an accident. I didn’t…I didn’t mean for it to happen. I tried to stop it, tried to keep her safe. ” My throat hurts, burns, and my eyes are hot and heavy.

Mom’s arms go around me. “I know, sweetie. It was an accident. I know. I’m just glad you’re both okay. ”

“I need to see her. ” I glance up at the nurse, Marie. “I need to see her, please. ”

“Of course. ” Marie moves behind me, pushes me through the door and down the hallway, around several corners.

Mom trails a step behind and to my left, sneakers squeaking on the floor. The hallway echoes with the distorted voice of someone paging someone else. Other nurses pass by going the opposite way, emerge from doors, charts in hand, converse behind desks, tap at keyboards.

Then we’re pushing through a doorway, into a dimly lit room identical to mine. A bed, a chair, a monitor turned off, no leads connected. Kylie is sitting up in bed, talking to Colt, who sits in the chair, drawn close to her bed. They both glance at me, and Colt straightens from leaning toward Kylie, stands up, moves toward me.

I’m scared. I wish I could stand up, but I’m dizzy and lightheaded, and it still hurts. “Colt…Mr. Calloway. ” I glance past him at Kylie, and all I want is to go to her.

But Colt is standing in front of me, looming over me. His blue eyes, so much like Kylie’s, are tight, narrow, concerned. “Oz. You okay? ”

I shrug. “Yeah. I will be. ” I blink up at him. “I—I’m sorry. I’m so—so sorry. It happened so fast. So fucking fast. I tried, but there was nothing—nothing I could—”

A heavy hand touches my shoulder, rests there. “I know, Oz. It was an accident. Kylie told me what happened. You did everything you could. No one blames you. ” He squeezed my shoulder and let go. “You’re both alive, and that’s all that matters. ”

I blame me, I don’t say.

“Oz. ” Kylie’s voice breaks through the tense silence. “Come over here, Oz. ” She glances at her dad, the nurse, Mom. “Can we have a few minutes? ”

Marie rolls me as close to Kylie’s bed as I can get, and then they all leave, closing the door.

I reach out with my free hand and take hers. “Kylie. God, baby. I’m so sorry. I should never have—I almost got you killed. ” I look at her, and my eyes burn again. “I’m so sorry, Kylie. So sorry. ”

She reaches out with both hands, puts her fingers over my lips. “It wasn’t your fault, Oz. It wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could. ” She swallowed hard. “It was so scary, Oz. You were—there was blood everywhere. I thought you were going to die. I thought—I thought you were going to bleed to death. There was just so much fucking blood, and—and I couldn’t breathe—” She stops, blinks, wipes at her eyes. “But you’re okay, and I’m okay. We’re okay, right? Everything’s okay. ”

I try so fucking hard to keep my eyes clear, but the pain-relieving medication does something to me, and although it doesn’t hurt as much anymore, the thickness and the heat in my throat, the burning, the residual fear in her lovely azure eyes and the way she’s tense and stiff and clearly in pain…it conspires against me, and I just can’t stop the tear from sliding down my face. Fucking crying like a sissy, but I can’t help it, and Kylie’s hand wipes across my face.

“No, Oz. You can’t do that. It’s all okay. ” She blinks and wipes my face again, runs her thumb across my lips. “Accidents happen, and we’re okay. ”

“Yeah, we’re okay. ” I breathe hard, shove it down, stop it, blink hard and blink hard and blink hard, squeeze my eyes shut, swallow the lump, breathe deep and steady myself. “I was just so scared I’d gotten you killed. They took you, and I didn’t know what happened to you. ”

“I’ve got two broken ribs, and a couple more are bruised. Some cuts and scratches. A few stitches on my left leg. I’ll be fine in a few weeks. ” She looks me over, and worry fills her eyes. “That chair—you’re not—you’re not…Oz…please tell me you’re not—” She can’t even say it.

I shake my head and move both of my legs for her, wiggle my toes. “No, no. I’m fine. I’m just…it hurts, and I had some drugs for the pain, which is making me a little lightheaded. I’m fine. ”

Marie comes in right then. “You both need to rest. ”

“One more minute, ” I say, and Marie nods, closes the door. I lean in, kiss Kylie on the lips. It’s soft and slow and sweet, and I want to get lost in her kiss, but I can’t.

She hisses and has to straighten. “Holy shit…ow. God, it hurts. ” She tries to shift, trying to get more comfortable. “I’m not gonna lie, Oz. It fucking hurts so bad. Every breath, every little motion. It all hurts. ”

“I’m so sorry, Ky. If I could take it from you, hurt for you, I would. ”

She smiles at me, faint, tired, tight. “I know, Oz. I know. ” She takes my hand and tangles our fingers together. Her eyes meet mine, burn bright and sincere. “I love you. ”

That sound, her voice speaking those words to me, it erases everything else. I lean in, rest my cheek gently against her arm. “I love you, too, Kylie. So much. ”

We’re silent, just sitting together. Eventually, Marie, Colt, and Mom come in, and I’m taken to my room and I fall asleep, dream of the accident, and of the glorious heaven that came before, her whispered I love you and her skin in the moonlight and then the Corvette is there, phone-lit face, too close, crashing impossibly through the darkness where we clung together on my bike, everything blurring, merging, nothing right, nothing the same.

I wake up sweating, and pain is a wracking spear in my gut. My arm aches, and I realize I don’t even know if it’s broken.

The next day, we both go home.

We both miss some school. Weeks pass slowly, during which we both heal, moving around stiffly. My arm is broken, and it’ll be a long while before the cast comes off. Other than that, I’m fine. My ribs are bruised, but they heal quickly, and the various cuts and deep scrapes on my legs, and the stitches on my head heal as well. Kylie and I just hang out, doing nothing much. Watch TV, do homework together. Anything kinky is off-limits for Kylie until her ribs heal. For the first week, she can’t move, can barely breathe.

I never got the chance to take up Colt on his offer to check out his friend’s garage, which sucks. That would’ve been a good job. But I’m not in any shape to work on cars yet. It takes nearly a month, and we’re both back to almost normal. My arm is still in a sling, but the cast will come off soon. I’m sitting with Kylie on her front porch, watching a show on Netflix on her laptop, watching night fall around us. We’re holding hands, the laptop on both of our laps as we rock gently on the two-person rocking chair. It’s become our favorite spot lately, since there’s not much else for us to do but sit around.

My gut clenches when I see a black Silverado pull into the driveway across the street. Kylie tenses, too. She hasn’t mentioned Ben in a long time, but I have a feeling there was some kind of discussion between them after the accident.

He sees us, and I move the laptop over to Kylie, stand up. Ben is coming this way, hands fisted at his sides.

“Oz. ” His voice is calm, but sharp.

“Ben. ” I extend my hand to him, hoping this can be a civil conversation.

I hear the laptop close behind me, and then the chair squeak as she stands up. Her footsteps shuffle. She still has a hard time moving around, her ribs still causing her some pain. Ben’s eyes narrow and go hard as he watches her move to stand beside me.

No one speaks for a long time, but Ben’s eyes betray a roiling maelstrom of emotion.

“Got something to say, Ben? ” I ask. “Then say it. ”

“Yeah, in fact. I do have something to say. ” He seems to swell, anger puffing him up. “You almost got her killed, Hyde. You and your stupid motorcycle. She can still barely walk. What’s going to be next? It’ll be something else. I know it. You’re a fucking hazard, Hyde. I knew from day one that you’d get her hurt. And you did. ”

“I’m fine, Ben—” Kylie starts.

Ben talks right over her, ignores her. “You know those ribs almost punctured her lungs? It was a matter of fucking centimeters, dude. It could’ve been her heart. Killed her in seconds. And it would have been your fault. Because you just have to try to be so goddamn cool, on your stupid fucking motorcycle. ”

“You’re being an asshole, Ben. It was an accident. It wasn’t his fault. ” Kylie pushes between us, stares him down. “Go home. ”

“No, Ky. Yeah, it may have been an accident, but that’s just the start of it. What’s gonna happen with you two? You’re gonna go off and, what? Do your little music thing? Play at being musicians? You’re gonna drag her around with you on the back of your bike, and eventually you’re gonna get her killed. ”

“Stop it, Ben! You’re being ridiculous. It was an accident. And what we do is none of your business. ” She frowns up at him, shakes her head. “What’s happening to you, Ben? Who are you? And what’s this really about? ”

Ben spins away, turns back, raking his hand over his head. “What’s this about? ” He jabs a finger in my direction, and I force myself not to react. “It’s about this fucking asshole. He’s all wrong for you, Kylie. He always was, and he always will be. He’s nobody, from nowhere. He’ll never be good enough for you! And you’re just so fucking blind that you can’t see how wrong he is! ”

“That’s my choice, Ben! ” Her voice is raised in a shout, and she pushes at him. The effort is too much, and she stumbles forward, hands on her knees, groaning, sucking in air.

“Fuck off, Ben. You’re upsetting her. ” I step in front of him, blocking his access to her.

“Get out of my way, Oz. You don’t fucking deserve her, and you know it. ” His voice is hard as iron, hard as steel, sharp as razors.

“Yeah, you know what? You’re right. I don’t. ” I step closer. “I never have and I never will. But guess what? She chose me, pal. Not you. You had your chance. You blew it. And now you’re jealous. I get it. She’s incredible, and I’d be jealous, too. But don’t cause problems where there don’t need to be any. ” I make sure he has nowhere to go but through me.

“Get out of my way, Oz. ” He pushes toward her, tries to go around me, toward Kylie, who is holding a hand to her ribs, gasping for breath, eyes wet, fearful, and she’s trying to reach for us.

I stay between him and her. “No. Go home. She asked you to go home. So just fucking go. Leave us alone. ” I step closer, so I’m nearly touching him.

“Get out of my face. ”

“Oz…Ben…please…don’t—” Kylie gasps.