11. Oakley

Chapter 11

Oakley

T he night air wraps around me as I follow Jeremiah out to his bike. He stops and turns, revealing something in his hand—my old helmet. It's worn, sporting a few scratches, but unmistakably mine.

"Wow, you kept that?" I quip, raising an eyebrow.

Jeremiah chuckles, a sound that sends a shiver down my spine. "Well, you're the only one who has ever worn it. Figured you might want it back."

My heart does a little somersault at his words. Damn him. "Yeah, well, I'm surprised you remembered," I say, trying to play it cool. But the tension between us is palpable. It feels almost like a coiled spring ready to snap.

"I remember every single thing about you," he says softly, almost to himself. The way he looks at me, it's like he's seeing right through all the walls I've put up. I hate how easily he can still get under my skin.

We mount the bike, and I can't help but feel a pang of nostalgia. The rumble of the engine, the smell of gasoline—it all brings back memories I'd rather bury because they're so bittersweet. They make me want to go back to a time when hiding my crush on Jeremiah Blackwood was my only problem.

"Remember those late-night rides?" Jeremiah's voice breaks through my thoughts. "When you couldn't sleep and I'd wait up until you texted me?"

I stiffen. Of course, I remember. Those nights were like our secret escape, a refuge from our world where only he and I existed. But now, they feel tainted, like everything else between us. On those rides, I'd let myself sink into his back, wrap my arms around him. I can still feel the thick muscles of his chest and abdomen contracting under my light touch. I've craved that feeling for the last two years, but I can't let myself go back there. I can't fall back into his world.

"Yeah, I remember," I say, placing my hands lightly on the side of his ribcage almost like I'm touching something so delicate. I keep myself as far away from him as possible, even though we're on the same bike. The physical distance mirrors the emotional chasm between us.

"Those were good times," he says, and there's a wistfulness in his voice that makes my throat tighten. "I've thought about those rides, bunny. Every. Single. Night." There's a sexual undertone to his voice that strikes a chord in me and I'm not sure if he means it that way or if he's just being naturally flirty.

"Sure," I reply, my tone flat. The memories flood back, unbidden. The thrill of the ride, the wind in my hair, the feeling of being free; and then reality crashes back in on me.

"Why aren't you holding onto me? Put your hands under my shirt, bunny. You know how cold your hands get." His question hangs in the air, heavy and loaded with the years we've been apart .

"Why do you think?" I snap back, unable to hide the bitterness. "Two years have passed, Jeremiah. Things are not the same."

He doesn't respond immediately, and I wonder if I've struck a nerve. Good. Let him feel some of the pain I've carried all these years.

"Things didn't have to end the way they did," he finally says, his voice low. "That was my fault and I own that."

"It's not that simple, Jeremiah," I admit, more to myself than to him. But it's too late for what-ifs.

The bike roars beneath us, the cool night air whipping past, and I know that calling him by his first name again is probably why he revved the engine. I can probably count the times I've called him his actual name in the years that I knew him.

As we ride, the memories continue to swirl around me, each one a stark reminder of what we've lost. And yet, there's a part of me that can't help but yearn for those simpler times, when it was just this pretty boy and me.

"Hold on," Jeremiah says again suddenly, snapping me out of my reverie as his voice comes in through the helmet comms.

"To what?" I ask, sarcasm dripping from my words.

"Me," he replies, and there's a challenge in his eyes. "Or I'll make you."

I hesitate, but then reluctantly wrap my arms completely around his waist. The warmth of his body seeps into me, and despite my best efforts, I can't ignore the familiar scent of him—leather, musk, and something uniquely Jeremiah.

"Don't let go," he murmurs, and there's an edge to his voice that sends another shiver down my spine.

"Just pay attention to the road," I mutter, tightening my grip, but I refuse to put my hands under his shirt like old times.

Jeremiah's hand grabs mine. His touch is firm but not forceful. Slowly, he guides my hands under his shirt, pressing them flat against the hard, warm planes of his abs. My breath hitches for a moment as the heat of his body seeps into my palms.

"I need your hands on me, bunny," he turns his head slightly as he murmurs. His voice is low, almost a growl, and it sends an unexpected shiver down my spine.

"Fine," I mutter, more to myself than to him. Reluctantly, I tighten my grip around his waist, but I'm stiff, afraid to let my guard down.

The engine roars to life beneath us, vibrating through my entire body. The scent of the exhaust fills my nostrils, dragging me back to nights long past. Nights when it was just the two of us, lost in the dark roads and each other.

"That's my girl," Jeremiah says, his voice praising me in a way I don't expect.

I don't reply because I'm trying to mask the whirlwind of emotions inside me. He speeds off; the wind whipping at my face, and for a moment, it's like we're racing away from our broken past.

When we finally arrive at the Blackwood house, the sprawling land looms before us, as if we aren't just off campus. I'm surprised Mr. Blackwood didn't try to claim eminent domain on the entire college. Walking inside, I see Penn lounging casually on the couch, a smirk playing on his lips. "Hey there, little brother!" he calls out to Jeremiah, his voice oddly chipper and grating.

"Shut the fuck up," Jeremiah snaps back. The tension between them is palpable, crackling like static electricity. Penn bursts into laughter, seemingly unaffected by Jeremiah's hostility.

"Same old Penn," I mumble, shaking my head slightly. That infuriating, unflappable demeanor of his never changes. If anyone can get under the other Blackwood brothers' skin, it's Penn.

"Jerry. Jerry, Jerry," Penn drawls, his hazel eyes sparkling with mischief. "You always were a drama queen."

"Keep running your mouth, Penn," Jeremiah retorts, his voice cold enough to freeze fire. "I'll beat the fuck out of you in front of Oakley. I've done it before."

"Touchy, touchy. And did you beat me, though?" Penn chuckles, leaning back further into the couch, completely at ease like he doesn't have a care in the world. All the Blackwood brothers are dangerous and have no qualms about being violent, but Penn is the most unhinged. He's the type to slit your throat while telling you a knock-knock joke. His gaze shifts to me, and I feel exposed under his scrutiny.

"Don't start," Jeremiah warns, stepping closer to his brother, his presence looming. It's a silent threat, one that Penn seems to relish rather than fear.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Penn replies smoothly, his grin widening. "Welcome back, bunny ."

"Thanks, pennywise," I reply dryly, not really knowing what else to say. It feels like I'm caught in the crossfire of their sibling rivalry.

"Don't fucking start your shit," Jeremiah growls at Penn, probably for using the pet name Jeremiah gave me. "Ignore him," Jeremiah says, his tone hardens ever so slightly as he turns to me and realizes that I'm trying not to laugh at Penn's antics. "Let's go."

Jeremiah's anger is a tangible thing, almost suffocating in its intensity. Without warning, he scoops me up, slinging me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing. My world tilts as I clutch at his shirt, my fingers digging into the fabric instinctively. Adrenaline pumps through my veins.

"Rem, what the hell?" I gasp, my heart pounding against my ribs. His muscles are taut beneath my touch, coiled like a predator ready to strike. Each step he takes reverberates through me, the tension rippling through his frame.

Instead of answering, he just growls, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine. "Just hold on and stop asking questions you already know the answer to."

And I do. Against my better judgment, I cling to him, feeling the heat radiating from his body once more. I'm like a fiend for it and I kind of hate myself for it. We ascend the stairs, each step bringing us closer to his room, away from prying eyes and mocking brothers.

When he finally sets me down on the bed, his hands are surprisingly gentle, a sharp contrast to the fury simmering in his eyes. His gaze locks onto mine, raw and unyielding, pinning me in place.

His voice is rough with determination when he says, "I'm going to find the person who hurt you, ya know? I don't care how long it takes, or what I have to do. I'm going to find them, and you know what I say is true. No one truly is a ghost. They will have left at least some minuscule thread for me to find and tug on. Once I find it, their life is over."

I look away, my throat tightening. The memories still feel too fresh, too painful. I can still feel the phantom ache, the violation that lingers in the corners of my mind. Vulnerability washes over me, mixing with the fear I can't quite shake. I should have known that he was too calm after I admitted to him what happened. He just wanted to get me here without much of a fight.

"Stop," I whisper, my voice barely audible. "Just…don't."

"Look at me," he commands, and I reluctantly meet his gaze. There's a fire there, a promise of retribution that both terrifies and comforts me.

"You're not alone in this," he continues, his tone softening just a fraction. "I won't let that bastard get away with it."

"Rem…" My voice cracks, betraying the turmoil inside me. But he's relentless, his determination unwavering.

"This won't be the first time I killed someone because of you," he says, stepping closer and I think my brain has short-circuited because…WHAT?

"You're joking," I sigh, the words heavy with resignation because he has to be. Right?

"Jeremiah," I start, my voice barely above a whisper. The weight of the confession sits heavy on my chest, but I force it out. "There were no cameras where it happened. I never saw his face. I have nothing to give you."

The words hang in the air like a dark cloud. Jeremiah's jaw tightens, and I can see the muscles in his neck strain as he processes what I've said. His fists clench tightly at his sides, knuckles turning white with the force of his anger. It's almost palpable, the anger radiating off him in waves.

"Fuck," he mutters, stepping back, his eyes blazing with an intensity that makes my heart race. "Fuck!" he repeats, louder this time, the word echoing off the walls of his room. For a moment, I think he's going to punch something, anything, just to release the rage that's consuming him. But instead, he exhales sharply, trying to regain control.

"Jeremiah…" I begin, unsure of what to say, how to co mfort him when I'm still grappling with my own fear and vulnerability.

"Don't," he snaps, though there's no real bite in his voice. He paces the room, running a hand through his short-cropped hair. His movements are restless, agitated, like he's searching for an escape. "I can't stand the thought of someone hurting you and getting away with it."

His words cut through me, and all I hear is pain and something else—something that feels dangerously like longing. Before I can respond, he stops suddenly, pulling off his t-shirt with a swift motion. The sight of his bare chest, sculpted and familiar, sends a jolt through me. My breath catches in my throat as he tosses the shirt at me, the fabric soft and worn from countless washes.

"Here," he says, his voice softer now but still tinged with that underlying tension.

I catch the shirt instinctively, the scent of him filling my senses. Memories flood back: late nights curled up in his bed, wearing his shirts that always seemed too big on me, feeling safe and cherished in a way I hadn't with anyone else. It's a bittersweet comfort, a reminder of what we once had and what we've lost. Just childhood dreams remain crumbled at the back of my mind.

"Are you sure?" I murmur, clutching the cotton to my chest.

His eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that leaves me breathless. "Just put it on, bunny."

"Thank you," I finally say, my voice trembling slightly. It's not enough to convey the depth of my gratitude, but it's all I can manage in the moment.

"You're welcome," he replies, stepping closer until the space between us is almost non-existent. His hand reaches out, brushing a strand of hair away from my face. The touch is gentle, almost reverent, and it stirs something deep within me.

"Don't leave the room," Jeremiah commands, his voice low and intense as he points around the dimly lit space. "There are cameras everywhere. They'll catch any movement if you try to leave the property. Plus, Penn will snitch. You know he loves telling everyone else's business, so don't think you can trust him."

"Great," I mutter, rolling my eyes. "Big Brother's watching."

"Seriously, Oakley," he continues, ignoring my sarcasm. "Stay put. You can go wherever in the house, but enter one of my brother's rooms at your own caution."

"Fine," I sigh, crossing my arms over my chest. A strange mashup of vulnerability and curiosity stirs within me at his concern. "Just don't take forever."

He nods, his eyes lingering on me for a moment longer than necessary before he turns and walks out. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone in the sprawling room that reeks of his presence.

I sink down onto the bed, the mattress firm beneath me. Jeremiah's shirt is still clutched in my hands, the fabric soft and worn. A part of me wants to toss it in the corner just out of spite, but a larger part is desperate to put it on and feel that safety net.

The safety net wins, and I tug my dress off before slipping on the t-shirt, some leggings, and my favorite pair of slouchy socks.

My stomach grumbles a little bit, but finding the kitchen means interacting with Penn and I don't have the energy to deal with him right now, so I crawl into the covers on the bed and feel my eyes start to droop closed before sleep claims me.