Ryder Cross was always loud. He laughed like he'd lived forever, rode his bike like hell was after him, and fucked like he was saving the world. A top-floor penthouse, a fingerprint key, a bar that was never empty, and a huge bed that had someone new in it every day. Sometimes a blonde, sometimes a redhead, sometimes two.

I lived in a three-room apartment where it was quiet. The walls were scratched, the bathroom tiles were old, and a cracked mug that I never threw away on principle. I didn't need strangers. Until Ryder.

He came into my life as easily as smoking a cigarette in someone else's entryway. First he asked for help with his motorcycle, then he stayed overnight, then he started disappearing from his place for weeks. With his girlfriends.