She mumbles something to me about not giving up on him, but honestly, my head is too drunk to catch it all.

When I crawl into my bed, I lie there feeling stunned and lost. I don’t understand how this all happened. He hated me. I hated him. But now...my heart surges when I think of what he did for that girl and her family. And the pain he’s hiding underneath it all.

Quickly, I find my phone on the nightstand, and I open up my text messages, typing one out to Ezra.

I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry, but I refuse to help you cause someone pain, no matter how bad they hurt us.

I don’t hit send though. I stare at the message for a while, tossing these choices back and forth in my head. This will crush Ezra. No matter what I do, one of them will feel pain because of me.

Chapter Twelve

Rafe

“You drive a motorcycle?” Mateo asks as I pull up to the shop. He’s working on the display out front, and he’s staring at my bike like it’s the coolest thing he’s ever seen.

“Yeah, why?” I ask, cutting the engine and hopping off.

He walks up to inspect it, and I can see the glimmer in his eye. “Don’t get any ideas,” I laugh, dropping a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“I’ve always wanted to ride a motorcycle.”

“Yeah? Well, they’re dangerous.”

“You drive one,” he replies, glaring up at me with a skeptical look on his face.

“I’m not sixteen.”

He throws his hands up at me and starts mumbling something at me in Spanish that makes me laugh. I like this kid, which is maybe why I keep finding myself here.

But then it could also be that I can’t be in my apartment anymore, not after what happened with Shelby. I was all twisted up in my head last night after I sent her packing. Then I heard her leave shortly and stay gone until after two, and I really shouldn’t give a shit what she’s up to, but my anxiety had fun with that one.

Getting closer to her only reminds me that her brother is somehow tied to all of this, and now that I know he’s connected to Mateo, I can’t let my guard down now.

“So, anything new around here?” I ask as I walk toward the display of keychains and umbrellas.

“Not unless you want to buy a Wicked Beach hat that is also a bottle opener,” he says, holding a bright pink hat out to me.

“No, thanks,” I grimace, and he laughs. “You know what I’m talking about, Mateo.”

The smile doesn’t fade easily as he groans. “No, sir. I’ve been good.”

“I bet you have, but you still don’t remember any names?”

“No,” he mumbles, looking down. I know this is hard for him. He doesn’t want to lie to a cop, but the kid has honor, and it’s possible he’s protecting someone. I’m not going to put him in that position if I don't have to.