Page 8 of Hide and Keep

I’ve been such a good, quiet,demuredaughter. This is the first time I’ve even attended a public outing that didn’t directly benefit him in some way and I had to sneak out to do it. But what did any of it get me? More of the same. It’ll always be more of the same.

Right now, I don’t feel the same. I don’t even feel like me.

I tear my eyes off the horizon to glare at my father, shouting into the mic, “I didn’t take a penny of thatthree hundred thousanddollars I moved around three times!” I stick three fingers up to emphasize my point and brace myself for a third pinch.

Except my father does something uncharacteristic and laughs. It’snothumorous. It’s full of malice and mockery andmakes me want to rip the headset off my ears just to make it stop.

“I guess you carry some of my genes after all.”

He says it like he’s proud of me, but I know that’s impossible.

Up until this point, I’ve done everything to try to make him proud, but nothing’s ever worked.

Why bother anymore? I only have five months until Nationals—apparently the last one I’ll ever get to compete in—and six months before my duty to Munreaux Motorcycles catches up with me, and my adult life will officially begin.

Six months to live how I actually want to.

Six months to live.

Five months later

The eight-foot-tall monogrammed wrought iron gates swing open and I pull through, slowly climbing up the winding driveway bordered on both sides by dense woods.

Finally cresting the hill, the mansion comes into view, along with the lavish grounds around it. The driveway breaks off into three separate paths, left, right, or straight through two identical-looking hedge mazes.

“This is fucking insane,” I mutter under my breath.

There’re no signs telling me which I should take, but since the house is where the interview is being held, I decide to go straight.

Past the mazes, I find a helipad. Automatically, I seek out the accompanying helicopter. Ever since Hide and Keep, I can’t help but look over every helicopter for clues. Five months of wondering if that’s where my butterfly disappeared to, into the helicopter that flew directly above us, ruining what was shapingup to be one of the most memorable nights of my life. She was there, right in the palms of my hands, but I took my eyes off her for a second, one fucking second, and she slipped out of my grasp. I didn’t get a name, a number, a single way to find her…except the helicopter she may or may not have left in.

It’s probably just wishful thinking.

It’s not wishful thinking. It’s worse. It’s delusion.

Private helicopters are common in this type of neighborhood, so the chances of someone living like this going for someone like me is ludicrous, outlandish, so beyond comprehension, I should stop. Stop looking, stop hoping, stop wasting my goddamn time.

There’s also the fact that I didn’t see her leave in it. Shecould’veleft with anybody, at any time. With her inquisitive gaze, soft yet demanding touch, and bold-as-all-hell kiss, my butterfly was…enchanting.

But she isn’t actually mine. Even if for a brief few moments, it felt like she was. Whoever she was.

No helicopter in sight, I focus on the mansion before me. It’s as tall as it is pretentious. The massive, detached garage off to the side hides two more buildings only seen from aerial footage I pulled off the internet during my research for today’s interview. One is a pool house with what appeared to be an indoor/outdoor pool, but the other was harder to identify. Definitely too small to be another garage, even for motorcycles.

Those two other parts of the driveway lead here, too, obviously wrapping around the mazes’ outer perimeters, so I park my Bronco in front of the stairs leading up to the front door, not entirely sure I’m supposed to but not knowing where else I should. There aren’t any fucking signs. Do they not get guests very often? This property is way too big not to have signage for first-time visitors.

While I’m taking stock of the front of the Georgian-style stone house, and struggling to find a single security camera, aman who is older—but not the man who founded the most well-known motorcycle company in history—comes down to greet me.

“Mr. Brantley, I presume?”

Instinctively, I pull my baseball hat a little lower over my face.

“You can call me Crue.”

Ignoring my request, the man asks, “Mr. Brantley, is there anything I can get you after the long drive? A refreshment perhaps?”

I give him my full attention again and a more thorough once-over. He may not be the homeowner but he’s acclimated to this lifestyle in his time working here. Although the drive here wasn’t long in distance, this area feels a world away from the one I live in.

“No, thank you. Is my car good here or should I move it?”

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