Chapter 51
spooked
Liam
Being less than one hundred percent annoys me. A shoulder that was, for all intents and purposes, field dressed. A ripped thigh and hip and two bruised knees are enough. Not knowing if I can defend Lorien should the need arise is a mental mindfuck I cannot afford.
My go-bag in hand, I’m in the bedroom placing what little Lorien brought over inside when she wanders out in a towel, rubbing a smaller one through her dark hair.
Not now, dick. Stand down.
Confusion mars her face. “What are you doing? Are you leaving?”
“We need to go. Get some clothes on. Do you need anything from the bathroom?”
“For tonight or for forever?”
“Tonight.” I scrape her phone and charger into the bag as well. “I need you to be quick, baby.”
Her eyes study me and without any more arguing or complaining, she throws her travel clothes back on, smooths something over her face, and is stepping into her shoes when we hear the beating at the front door.
I swipe my phone open, turn to the cameras, and stare into the face of someone who hasn’t been on my radar… for a week.
“Who is it?” Lorien whispers, her eyes going wide.
“It’s Mark Gascon, the guy who broke into your garage,” I reply quietly, toggling to the garage views. “And one of his uncle’s moving trucks is blocking our ability to leave that way.”
“Is he blocking mine too?”
I nod.
“I don’t even want to say it, but can we get out on your bike?”
How did I not think of that? I zoom in, taking in how the truck is positioned blocking the alley with the cab covering the garage door. “I think so. Have you ever ridden before?”
The look on her face is appalled. “No. Never.”
“Here are the basics. Don’t do anything. Don’t lean in, don’t lean away. Just hold on to me. Can you do that?”
“I’ll probably screw up but we need to get out of here and that’s our only way, right?”
I nod. “You’re going to have to wear the backpack.”
“Okay?”
“Now’s not the time for questions. This is the time to trust me.”
“I already do.” Her voice drops to just above a whisper.
“Okay. Let’s go.” I grab her hand and pull her through the back door, locking up and putting a finger over my lips.
We slide into the garage, and I put her on my bike, looping the backpack over her shoulders and dropping my helmet onto her head.
It’s loose, not the proper fit, but it’ll protect her brains if I have to lay this thing down for some reason.
I shoot a text off before doing anything further.
Me: Trouble on my heels. You’re the safest place I know, but I hate bringing it to your doorstep. Please advise.
On quiet feet, I run back into the house when I remember the cat. Gascon beats on the door yelling my name and obscenities. It’s annoying how dumb he is.
Ayla: You haven’t been gone for five hours. How does this happen?
Christian: We’re ready. Need a show of force?
I slide Poe into my shirt pocket and button it. She’s outraged—I know because she stabs me with her claws—but doesn’t get a choice.
Me: Can’t hurt. I’ll lose them if I can. If I can’t, be ready when you hear the pipes.
Me: {Sharing location}
I’m back in the garage sending one last text.
Me: If you call, Lorien is in my helmet.
I flip up the visor and say as quietly as I can, “Hold on around my middle. Try to avoid the shoulder if you can. And the hip, but better I be in pain and you still on than the other way around. Got it?”
She gives Poe a stroke and asks, “Are you sure about this?”
“Not interested in fighting my way out, so, yeah.” A known felon on one end and a shady-as-shit business owner who would hire said felon on the other means they’re willing to fight dirty at the very least.
I climb on, stretching the wound at my hip until I wish I didn’t have to ride. The fabric presses in needlessly as well, folding painfully in all the wrong spots.
Fifteen minutes. Twenty tops. That’s what I need to get us safe.
God help me if they give chase and it requires losing them.
No. God help them if that’s the case.
Holding the handlebars is murder.
Lorien’s arms around my waist is, too, but for a whole different reason. “You ready?” I turn her way.
My old, retired helmet bobs, and I reach a hand back to slide the visor down.
Here goes nothing.
I crank the bike at the exact moment I hit the garage door and am through it and into the alley before the truck driver has a chance to make a face.
I use the app on my phone to drop the garage door and arm the house as I round the corner to see Gascon, phone to his ear, looking confused.
His other hand holds a gun and he whirls, firing.
It goes wide and I want to stop and give him a beat down for pulling that shit near the woman on the back of my bike. More so, I don’t waste another moment to let him get off another shot.
We’re on the main drag, heading for C470, when motion in my periphery catches my attention. Gascon runs hellbent for leather chasing me instead of trying to get a ride, lifting the pistol.
I can’t avoid what I desperately wanted to, and I rock the bike side to side while bobbing and weaving.
Lorien holds tight…
… and screams.
Lorien
There’s singing in my head. It’s a random song… one I’ve never heard before. But it’s only four lines on repeat.
It stops before starting again.
All the while Liam has decided to give me the motocross experience.
Okay, real talk? I don’t know what motocross is. But the motorcycle dudes I see who look so imposing? They’re always straight up and down, cool as a cucumber, practically aloof. We’re doing bends and dips.
I told him I didn’t know how to do this. He told me to not fight the leans. I know why now. Everything in me—and I mean everything—wants to find a way to stay upright. And leaning isn’t that.
He rolls his wrist and we shoot forward, my butt wanting to fly backward, and I hold on tighter, letting a yell come through me.
It’s fear and fun, but I can’t tell which percentage of which. It’s liberating and terrifying. It’s exposed but unencumbered.
I get it. Even if I don’t know if I want it.
Power vibrates between my thighs as the warmth of his back seeps into my chest. I lift my chin to see over his uninjured shoulder. We merge onto the highway, and in that instant, fear certainly outweighs fun. We’re going fast, zipping in a way I don’t think Liam ever has with me in his presence.
We’re practically flying. I want to look back to see why while at the same time, shut my eyes to the turns.
I must be holding him tightly, because once we’ve exited the highway for surface streets, he releases one handle, giving my hands around his abdomen a squeeze, before returning it to the gas or brake or whatever he’s doing.
His hands twist. His feet move up and down. We zig and zag until he pulls into a neighborhood with houses the size of university buildings that are equally as ornate.
Holy macaroons.
Without a word, a garage door slides up, and an armed man walks to the edge of the bay, looking left and right before nodding.
Did we just leave one trap to fall into another? Out of the frying pan and into the fire or something?
Liam shows no hesitation with this craziness and pulls us into the bay, the door sliding closed behind us. He taps my hands that might as well be frozen to each other and to his chest, and rubs them a time or two before looking over his shoulder at me.
He’s saying something but the weird four-lined singing is in the helmet and I can’t understand a word he’s mouthing.
Reaching back, he lifts the visor. “Hop off, baby. We’re safe.”
I look from him to the armed man who I recognize as the man with the chili recipe. “Fitz?”
He releases the huge black gun in the strappy thing at his side and extends a hand to help me off the Harley. I accept, nearly tumbling into him on vibrating jello legs.
Fitz looks over my head before a shit-eating grin overtakes his face. He steps back, putting a hand over his mouth.
I whirl on the man behind me, the weight of the backpack not helping my typically terrible balance issues.
Liam steadies me, removes the helmet and lifts the bag off me in one fell swoop with his good arm, and extends a hand.
We’re almost to the back door, Fitz pulling up the rear, when the door whips open and Ayla’s in the garage.
She pulls me into a hug, all the while talking. “I’m so glad you’re here. It’s late, but there’s coffee and dessert if you want it.” She pauses to study her brother. “There’s blood on your pants. You can have Sophia once you stop leaking.”
That’s a lot of info.
“I’m sorry about this, Ayla. I hope we’re not imposing.”
“We’re not.” Liam puts a hand to my back, ushering me ahead of him, right into a huge home with a man who looks like an Italian suit model. His hollow cheeks sit above a chin that looks carved from marble. His dark eyes are piercing. He’s tall, imposing, and…
Liam crowds me from behind as I stare at the man in a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up his forearms, holding Sophia. A scary dog sits at his feet.
If this were an ad for expensive leather shoes or home décor I’ll never afford, it would make more sense.
“Lorien,” he says close to my ear. “This is my brother-in-law, Christian. That handsome boy is Franklin. Christian, this is Lorien.”
The man smiles a knowing smile. “Welcome, Lorien. We’re glad we could take care of Liam while you were away.”
“It seems trouble finds him,” I offer.
“Do you include yourself in that assumption?”
I shrug. “Sometimes.” I look down at the dog. He doesn’t move. No crazy tail wag. No twitching bottom. “Is Franklin… protecting you?”
“Release,” Christian says and the dog bounds for Liam, looking for everyone like a normal pet, not the model-statue-protector he was mere moments ago. He sniffs Liam’s hip and releases a small howl.
“I know, buddy. I’ll go check it out. This is Lorien. You can trust her.” He kisses my temple and walks away, the pup loping quietly behind him, as Poe explains her distaste for being trapped in a shirt pocket for this long.
Ayla rounds me with an arm over my shoulder as Fitz wanders silently down the hall. “Come on in. I tried calling you, but you didn’t answer.”
“I don’t know where my phone is. Dang, the thing is barely twenty-four hours old, and poof. Liam’s going to regret buying it for me.”
She whips out her phone and presses some buttons, and a sound plays from near her kitchen island.
I let out a sigh. “Shoosh. That would’ve been terrible. You have to know, there’s no way I could’ve answered on that bike.” I hitch a thumb over my shoulder.
“I called Liam’s phone. He said it was connected to the helmet.”
I’m embarrassed. Of course four lines of a song on repeat over and over is a ringtone. How many times did that play while we were on our way? “The book-smarts almost never translate to street smarts. I didn’t know. Now that I do, I wouldn’t have any idea how to even answer.”
“What got him spooked?” Ayla juts her chin past the island toward the stairs.
I pause, replaying what happened when I exited the shower.
“He was ready to go, in fact, he was packed and had me packed before the lunatic started knocking on the door. We left then, but it wasn’t the guy who broke into my house a week ago or the moving truck blocking the alley and his garage that got him… ”
“It’s way worse,” Liam says, reentering the fray.