Chapter 15
Fifteen
Raven
Ahead of me, Declan rides down the street, his black Fireblade distinctive in the morning sun.
I know he’ll think nothing of me following him for the first mile or two, but after that, I’ll need to be careful.
Motorcycles have small mirrors, and checking behind is an effort. That, and if I’m careful, I can keep a vehicle between us. It all depends how fast he goes, where he goes, and whether he bothers to look.
But I’m betting he has the arrogance of any biker, safe in the knowledge that no one can keep up. Declan’s bike is fast, he rides well, and arrogance? No shortage.
He takes the 101 into the city, the Saturday morning traffic heavy enough that following him is easy.
We split lanes, him between the outside and the center, me between the center and inside.
I’m in his blind spot; even if he does check mirrors now, he’d have to see past a dozen cars, catch only a glimpse of me at best, with the angle all wrong. So far, so good.
I wonder at myself, following this man I’ve known but two weeks, slept with twice, fought with, robbed a bank with. And now I’m spying on him.
It doesn’t make me feel good.
More than once, I almost call it off, but I don’t. Partly because he’s riding the 101 through the city and heading northwest, in the direction of Tujunga. Not the way I would’ve gone back to my apartment, but… justifiable. It gives me a perfect excuse to keep going.
But mainly I follow him because my intuition says something is wrong. Perhaps because Kurt asked if I could trust him, or perhaps because he’s only just joined the crew.
It could be because I don’t understand the strength of my feelings, and I want to know who this man is—but I hope that’s not why I’m doing this. It’s a poor justification.
We pass Chinatown, still heading west, and now I have a decision to make. If I stay behind him, my convenient excuse of heading home no longer works. But he hasn’t looked back, he’s riding steadily, zipping between cars and making progress. I want to know what’s pulling him forward like that.
We stay on the 101 into East Hollywood, where he crosses two lanes, taking the exit at the last minute. I’m already on the inside, and it’s easy to follow him off. I slow anyway, giving him a chance to reach the end of the offramp. All I need is to know which direction he turns.
Left, down Santa Monica.
Where’s he going?
As soon as he’s out of sight, I open my throttle, racing to the end of the ramp. I have to go heavy on the brakes and my rear wheel comes up. I catch a glimpse of him ahead, riding west, the traffic busier. If I don’t follow, I’ll lose him.
The lights have turned red, but I ignore them, peeling out into the traffic, using my acceleration to take a gap, horns blasting in indignation.
I swing between a pickup and a sedan, keeping cars between us, hugging my bike to stay low.
Declan sticks out, his lid reflecting the sun, his black-grey Dainese jacket unmistakable.
Shoulders that broad, it’s amazing he doesn’t cause accidents wherever he rides.
He takes another left, and as he turns, there’s a brief window where he can look without using his mirrors. Has he seen me? He shows no sign.
Again I accelerate up to that junction, only half an eye on the traffic, trusting my instincts but well aware I’m riding recklessly.
He’s two blocks ahead, and I swing after him, letting the distance increase.
Three blocks feels like the sweet spot. Plenty of time to race to a corner if he makes a turn—so long as he doesn’t make them in quick succession.
He turns a moment later, down Madison, and again I have to blip the throttle, cutting through the traffic to reach the point he disappeared. I edge to the lights, see him running straight, and take my time making the turn.
He’s riding slower now. Either close to his destination or looking for something. Hopefully not me. I slow too, then ride behind a large SUV that thoughtfully comes between us, letting me see past him when I need to, and hide when I don’t.
Then Declan pulls over, and I hit the brakes. He’s barely two blocks ahead, and he’s getting off his bike. I pull in behind a parked car, barely stopping in time, keeping my head down, my heart pounding.
When I look up a minute later, his bike’s there, but he’s not.
Now what?
If he’s meeting someone, I could be waiting ages. But I don’t think he is. This area is all shops, no restaurants or bars. I kick my bike into neutral, rest an arm on my tank, and peer over the cars in front of me. Waiting.
It doesn’t take long. Declan emerges barely five minutes later, stuffing something inside his jacket. That’s standard carrying for a biker without a bag, so long as the package is small. I didn’t see what he had.
He doesn’t even look my way, merely climbs on his bike and takes off again, and I follow, keeping my distance, more confused than before.
As I pass, I get a good look at the shop he went into. It’s a boutique jewelers.
What’s he doing? More to the point, what the hell am I doing?
He’s out shopping on a Saturday. People do that. He even bought jewelry. I can think of someone he might want to give that too—even if it is a bit soon.
It’s probably a collar. That would be his style. I can just imagine it around my neck.
And he turns north, almost immediately. Running back up to the 101, yes, but also aiming directly for Tujunga. With jewelry in his jacket.
Shit… is he going to my apartment? He’d expect me to be there by now, except I’m not. Instead, I’m following him around the city.
But he said dinner, this evening. He said he’d be out all day. Has he changed his mind? Is this a spur-of-the-moment romantic gesture?
It doesn’t fit. I don’t understand.
Why would you, Raven? It’s you that’s acting weird.
Fine. I’ll follow him, because there’s nowhere else to go anyway. I’ll stay on his tail until he hits Tujunga—if he hits Tujunga—and then I’ll burn down to Kurt’s unit instead, hang out there for a bit. Wait until this evening. Explain I wasn’t home.
And if he doesn’t?
With jewelry in his pocket?
I clench my jaw, hunker over my bike, and keep tracking him.
He leads me back onto the 101, still heading north. The traffic is lighter, but I’m used to this tailing business now, and it’s easy enough to sit behind a car, skip to the next, use them as cover. Who knew bikes were so well suited to this?
We pass the turn for the 134 east, and Declan keeps going.
I give it side-eye as I go by; that’s the road to take if Tujunga had been the goal.
We’re heading west now, well out of the city, the road a six-lane freeway with plenty of traffic to hide behind.
Declan settles in, cruising at a steady ninety miles an hour, mostly in the outside lane, weaving in as he needs to pass cars.
He’s not pushing it; that’s usual on a Fireblade, and my Ducati keeps up easily.
We keep going for mile after mile, and I’m trying to figure out what’s down here. Malibu’s to the south, Oxnard at the end of the road. The road is straight; he’s not riding for pleasure. He sure the hell isn’t going for a walk.
We’re already half an hour from the city. Is this where he went, last Saturday at five thirty? Is this why it took him at least two hours to get breakfast? And that assumes he came back the minute I left, which I very much doubt.
What is it that draws Declan west of LA? This isn’t Briggs’s territory, far as I know. There’s no reason for it.
But clearly he has one.
Mostly, I’m trying to understand what this means for me. So little trust, following him. Invading his privacy. Why am I doing this? I want to say it’s for Kurt, but it isn’t anymore. Not since the jewelry shop.
If that package was going to Tujunga—to me—he’d have picked it up on the way back.
Maybe it isn’t jewelry. Maybe it’s… what else does a jewelry shop sell?
Fucking jewelry. That’s what a jewelry shop sells.
I watch Declan, mind my distance, try not to get myself killed riding with only half an eye on the traffic, and go over the same thoughts again and again.
Along with the fear of him seeing me.
I keep waiting for him to slam his brakes on. To slow, waiting for me. The accusation in his eyes. Pulling up at the side of the road. Taking his helmet off and glaring, angry, disappointed, or both. Asking questions I can’t answer.
But it doesn’t happen. He keeps riding.
Another twenty minutes rolls by before Declan pulls off, swinging for the offramp with his usual last-minute nonchalance.
I hit the brakes, duck behind a pickup, hold my breath and hope I’m far enough back.
It’s the Simi Valley exit, into Thousand Oaks.
Comfortable suburbia, clean, safe, and boring.
The exit road runs long, the traffic light, and I’m forced to hang back. This is where I could easily lose him, and when I check again, he’s nowhere to be seen. All this effort, and he could disappear anywhere in here.
It was always a risk.
But I’m wrong. There are no turns off; the road sweeps around a long bend, picking up the freeway into town.
He’s just opened his throttle, probably unable to resist the curve of an empty road after all those boring straights.
I give my Ducati her head, blowing past a hundred, skimming by a family sedan like it’s standing still.
It flashes its lights, probably already pissed off courtesy of the Fireblade that blew through ahead of me.
And there, far ahead, is Declan, low on his bike.
There’s no way he can see me now, not with that view in his mirrors and how they vibrate on this road surface.
I could be ten yards behind him and he wouldn’t know it.
I twist the throttle, crouching low, closing the distance as my Ducati clocks one-thirty, and we race down the road, a few hundred yards between us.