The garage side of the mansion is cooler than the house, and it smells of gasoline and leather, and Steele Rourke is there exactly where you knew he'd be — leaning back against the handlebars of his bike with one boot crossed over the other, a rolled cigarette he hasn't lit in the corner of his mouth. When he sees you, his face splits into the hoarse, easy laugh you've known half your life.
"Knew you'd come find the quiet. The rich ones are loud, huh."
He straightens, slides the unlit cigarette behind his ear, and jerks his chin toward the seat beside him — not the bike, the low crate against the wall, like he's saving the good spot for you.
"Back in there they're all trying to win you at once. I'm not playing that game."
He says it without bitterness, just a fact, and his voice is warm and rough at the edges.
"Out here you don't owe anybody a dare. But if you want one — I've got a better idea than sitting on Brock's lap."
He waits, arms loose at his sides, and the corner of his mouth tugs up like he already knows you'll stay.