The Biker's Secret

The motorcycle’s engine ticked as it cooled, a metallic heartbeat echoing in the shadow of the gym. Back in the desert, that tick came just before the gas line blew. Here, it meant the first day of school.

Riven killed the ignition and slid the helmet off her head, shaking loose strands of dark hair that clung to her damp forehead. She scanned the parking lot—rows of cars lined up in perfect suburban neatness, not a single bike in sight. It all looked so civilized. Like nothing bad ever happened here unless it wore a letterman jacket.

Good.

She wheeled her own machine backward, deeper into the shadow of a chain-link fence beside the dumpsters. The bike’s chrome gleamed once in the morning sun before vanishing into shadow, like she was shoving a dangerous truth into a closet. The smell of gasoline clung stubbornly to her jacket, sour and sharp, mixing with the metallic tang of oil.

For a second, the smell hit too deep. It was the same reek that had filled her nostrils the night everything burned—the night her father didn’t come back. Smoke in her lungs. Heat blistered her palms as she’d gripped the handlebars.

They said it was an accident. But when MC patches go missing and reports get sealed, you stop believing in accidents.

Her stomach lurched. She bent over, palms pressing to her knees, forcing the memory back down where it belonged. No flames here. No sirens. Just a polished parking lot and a high school with pastel blue banners that read:

CRESTWOOD HIGH: HOME OF THE COUGARS.

She straightened, shoving her helmet into her locker-sized backpack. Rule number one: don’t let the ghosts show. Rule number two: don’t let anyone know who you are.

The plan was simple—keep her head down, graduate, and vanish. But deep down, she knew hiding in plain sight never lasted. Ghosts always circle back. Especially the ones that ride chrome.

Inside, Crestwood High smelled faintly of lemon disinfectant and paper. The halls buzzed with first-day energy—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, laughter bouncing too loud. Riven threaded through it like a shadow, pulse steady, eyes lowered.

But people always notice the new girl.

“Who’s that?” someone whispered behind her.

“She looks older.”

“Bet she’s trouble.”

Trouble. They always guessed too close to the truth.

Her locker resisted before finally clicking open. She shoved her bag inside, tugged out the folded schedule, and scanned it.

Chemistry, Room 204. Perfect.

Nothing screamed “normal” like beakers and the periodic table.

The classroom smelled of pencil shavings and bleach. Sunlight slanted through half-open blinds, dust floating in golden stripes. Riven picked a desk near the back, sat, and opened her notebook, already scribbling meaningless lines. The trick was to look too busy to notice anyone else.

The chair beside her scraped back. Someone slid into it, all sharp motion and deliberate weight.

She felt him before she turned. That strange gravity—like he bent the air around him, like every molecule leaned in his direction. Riven lifted her eyes slowly.

He was magnetic in the worst possible way. Dark hair shoved carelessly back, a jaw too sharp, a bruise-colored hoodie slouched over broad shoulders. He didn’t look at her right away—just stretched out his legs under the desk, arms folding with loose arrogance. When he finally did glance her way, his eyes were gray—flat and unblinking, like steel locking her in place.

“Riven, right?” His smirk twitched, almost playful. “Relax, I’m not about to write you a sonnet. My handwriting’s terrible anyway.”

She’d scrubbed it from everything—school files, legal forms, even DMV records. That name was supposed to be dust.

She forced a shrug. “That’s what the attendance sheet says.”

A smirk curved at his mouth, lazy and precise. “I’m Axel.”

Of course, he was. Axel. The kind of name carved into desks, whispered in bathrooms, maybe muttered in stories about fights behind the gym.

The teacher began roll call, but Axel didn’t look away. His stare dissected, like he was peeling back layers. Riven shifted, scribbling harder in her notebook, annoyed that her pulse was betraying her.

Lab partners were assigned. Naturally, the teacher read: “Riven Hale and Axel Wolfe.”

Her head snapped up. Hale. No—she’d changed it. Legally, on paper, it wasn’t Hale anymore.

She caught Axel watching her with the faintest spark of interest, as if he’d been waiting.

He leaned closer, voice a low drawl. “Guess we’re stuck together.”

She snapped open her notebook with unnecessary force. “Guess so.”

They worked in silence at first, measuring liquids. She kept her eyes on the glass, but his presence pressed in. He moved with precise, steady hands, a casual confidence that was almost infuriating.

Finally, he murmured, low enough the teacher wouldn’t hear, “You’ve done this before.”

She frowned. “It’s chemistry. Everyone’s done this before.”

His head tilted, dark hair sliding across his forehead. “Not like that. You don’t even check the measurements. You just… know.”

Her stomach flipped. Her father used to say the same thing—about engines, about fire, about anything she touched, like it was already in her blood.

She capped the beaker harder than necessary. “Maybe I just pay attention.”

Axel didn’t press. He brushed a smear of chalk dust off her sleeve with two fingers, casual, but too intimate. “You look like you’ve run from something before,” he said softly, ambiguous, unreadable.

Her breath caught. She jerked her arm back. “Don’t touch me.”

His mouth barely shifted, the ghost of a smile that wasn’t really one. “Didn’t say I minded.”

By the end of class, her nerves buzzed so sharp she could feel them in her fingertips. She packed quickly, ready to bolt.

But Axel’s voice followed her, smooth, deliberate. “See you tomorrow, Hale.”

Her mouth dried. The inside of her skin felt too tight, like it no longer fit.

Her last name wasn’t Hale. Not anymore. Not here.

She turned slowly, heart pounding like it was trying to break out of her chest. “What did you just say?”

He leaned back in his chair, lazy but deliberate, his gray eyes gleaming with the sharp satisfaction of someone who’d just pulled a pin from a grenade.

“Hale. That’s what they used to call you, isn’t it?”

The name hit her like a punch to the ribs. She hadn’t heard it spoken since the night she swore it was buried for good.

Axel’s smirk was gone now, replaced by something unreadable. But the way he said it—like a secret, like a threat—told her everything.

He knew.