Page 49 of Bad Boy Neighbor

“I don’t usually quote my father, trust me. I hardly ever agree with him, but one thing he said stuck. If you fail, you have to get up and try again. Allowing your failures to define you is one step away from rock bottom.” I watch him, the turmoil etched on his face as his brows draw in together, coupled with a pained expression.

He’s torn between his desire to ride and the fear of getting hurt.

“You need to do this, Oliver. Ignite your passion again because otherwise, you’re going to waste your life away not doing the things you love.”

“Ironic, coming from you.”

“C’mon,” I beg, handing over the helmet. “For me?”

“It’s not that easy,” he mumbles, touching the bars on the motorbike, admiring the steel metal finish. “The accident was…” he trails off.

I place my hand against his cheek, caressing it gently to calm him down. He presses into me, closing his eyes briefly.

“I guess if we can just go slow.”

“We?” I ask, confused. “As in… I’m getting on with you?”

He nods with a smile. “If you want me on this bike, you’re coming with me.”

“Um… okay.” I’ve never ridden a bike, but I know how much this means to him, so for now, I will have to suck it up, even if speed terrifies me. “Now, in full disclosure, I’m scared, but for you, I am willing to give in to my fears.”

Motorcycle riding is a combination of exhilaration, fear, relaxation, and pleasure that changes you forever. It’s physical and emotional pleasure with a layer of anxiety and adrenaline—all the things I hadn’t expected to experience as I clutched onto Oliver’s back.

We race through the hills, weaving our way through the windy roads. The wind blows against my arms, a euphoric feeling to experience such freedom.

Our destination is Del Cerro Park. It’s a popular spot with views of the Pacific Ocean coastline and Catalina Island.

When we reach the lookout spot, Oliver parks the bike and turns the engine off. Pulling off his helmet, there’s a satisfied smile on his face—a sense of accomplishment.

“How did it feel?”

“Intense, orgasmic, like catching up with a long-lost friend,” he purrs, unable to wipe the grin off his face. “Thank you for making me do this.”

“You’re welcome.”

We begin to walk at the southernmost end of Crenshaw Boulevard, south of the Pacific Coast Highway. The trail begins as a wide, unpaved path with expansive ocean vistas right from the start. Deep canyon walls fall off to the right, dropping to the coastline in an endless sea of blue.

Oliver intertwines his fingers with mine, holding my hand as we walk along the trail, passing the tourists who have stopped to admire the scenery and take photographs.

The sweeping vistas are breathtaking, and on this perfect summer’s day, the breeze is enough to take away the unwanted heat.

Something feels so right about this moment, and not one part of me feels guilty.

Oliver feels right.

Yet, it’s all still new, so fresh, and not wanting to rock the so-called boat, I choose not to pull away and enjoy our walk together, hand in hand.

“I’ve never been to Australia,” I tell him, stopping at the fence to admire the view. “Is it like this?”

“I figured the night I met you,” he chastises, reminding me of my humiliating effort to question his fake accent. “This view… I guess it does feel like back home. Our beaches are amazing, but everything else is so different.”

“How so?”

“We don’t tip.”

I pull back in shock. “Like never?”

He shakes his head. “Never.”

---