Chapter 5 #2
“—And pictures of our faces on the news—”
“—If he talked.”
I put my hands on my hips and stare at him. “Why wouldn’t he have fucking talked? Didn’t you hear the way he spoke to me? He had a vendetta. For me, if not for the whole damn crew.”
Kurt looks amused. “Because you made him look prettier?”
“He deserved it,” I grind out.
“So I gathered. Still, he wouldn’t have talked.”
“How do you know?” I stare at him, incredulous. “How can you claim that?”
“Because I arranged it with Briggs,” he says, nonplussed. “There was insurance in place.”
Of course there was. Kurt wouldn’t have left anything to chance. I let out a breath, trying to calm down. “Do I even want to know what that means?”
“His momma.” Kurt shrugs one shoulder. “Everyone has a weakness.”
“Yeah?” I shoot back. “What’s mine?”
Kurt nearly smiles. “Almost everyone has a weakness.”
That’s bullshit. I’ve got plenty of weaknesses. Just because he won’t name them doesn’t make it not true. “So what, you set Kawasaki up to take the fall?”
“Kawasaki?” Kurt echoes, amused.
“Pablo.” I correct myself, irritation rising. “You knew he’d go off noisy, didn’t you?”
“I thought there was a good chance, yes.”
“And Declan Hale?” I demand. “That bastard is too handsome for his own good. Tell me he’s not coming?”
“What about me?” a voice says from the doorway, and I turn to see a pair of blue eyes. Fixed on me.
Shit. He heard that, didn’t he?
My cheeks flush as my gaze meets his, and heat rushes through me, even with twenty feet between us.
My words have gone; I can’t speak. He’s in his leathers, his backpack and helmet held easily in one hand, two fingers through the loops of the bag, two more around the chin guard.
His jacket is unzipped, showing a black T-shirt tight across his chest, his pecs defined and his stomach flat.
I really want to see it without the shirt.
I’m suddenly conscious I’ve been staring at him for far too long, without speaking. When he asked me a question.
Is there drool? Please God let there not be drool.
Shit. I need to leave.
Kurt clears his throat. “Genesis was checking you knew where to come tonight.”
“Yeah, I got your text.” Declan walks in, setting his bag down next to mine.
It sags like it’s mostly empty. “And your drills. But I figured you didn’t actually want them back, worn and all, so I threw them in the river.
” He opens the bag and pulls out… a roll of paper towels.
Then offers them to Kurt with a sardonic smile.
He doesn’t seem pissed. There’s almost a playfulness in his demeanor. He’s not annoyed, he understands. We didn’t trust him, and he understands.
I’m not sure I would, in his position.
“Ah, great,” Kurt says, accepting the bulky roll. “Never have enough of this stuff. It’s so versatile, don’t you agree?”
“Absolutely,” Declan replies, straight-faced. “I prefer the ones with pockets, myself. More absorbent.”
I roll my eyes and head for the door, leaving them to swap Good Housekeeping tips.
“Genesis…”
“Genesis.”
They both say my name, so close they overlap.
I pause, half-turning back. “What?”
Declan slides his hands in his pockets, deferring to Kurt. But his gaze doesn’t leave me.
“I was planning a little party to celebrate,” Kurt says. “You’ll stay, right?”
“No,” I say bluntly, turning away again. “Not in the mood.”
“I’m afraid I can’t either.” Declan’s quick to refuse too, and very polite. “Another time?”
“Very well,” Kurt replies. “You two have fun.”
I’m sure I’ve no idea what that’s supposed to mean.
Declan is following me, and it was him I was trying to avoid. My helmet and gloves go on as I take the stairs, and I’m sitting astride my bike when he walks out after me. Surely he’ll go to his own bike?
But he doesn’t. He stands in front of mine.
“What do you want?” I ask, starting my engine and revving it hard.
“You,” he says, eyes locked on me. I can only half hear him over the noise, but lipreading a single word isn’t difficult.
I edge the bike forward, and he doesn’t move. The front wheel nudges into his knee.
He stares at me for a long moment, then gives a shrug and a half smile, as if to say it doesn’t matter. He pulls on his lid, that iridescent visor masking his expression, and only then does he finally step out of my way.
I ride out of the alley and onto the road, irritated with myself as much as him.
It’s a Friday evening, about seven thirty, still light, and the bars around are beginning to fill up.
I ride past a few, people spilling onto the road without a care.
Pulling the clutch in and gunning the engine clears my path.
They get out of the way faster for noise than they do a large pickup, like they genuinely didn’t notice until I assault their eardrums. Idiots.
What a waste of a day. I should’ve just dropped the bag off early, then gone for a ride.
But now it’s getting late, I’m pissed, and stuck in the middle of the city with another twenty-mile ride home.
The traffic is heavy as I swing onto Route 2, four lanes of slow-moving vehicles.
I skim down between them, the fastest moving thing around, my focus on the road ahead, watching for that tell-tale twitch that lets me know when someone is about to change lanes with their mirrors as an afterthought.
If they hit me, they get a dent in their side, and I get to trash my bike, go over their hoods at speed, bounce off a car or two then spend Fourth of July weekend in the hospital. It hasn’t happened yet, and I don’t intend for today to be any different.
It’s another kind of challenge to switchbacks on a road across the mountains, but I still like it.
I just love being on my bike.
The sun’s low in the sky but mostly behind me, reflecting in my mirrors. It’s hot enough to have my jacket half open, and a few cars notice. They hit their horns as I go by, chirpy little greetings rather than admonishing my riding. Most people get it around here; LA has enough bikes.
Twenty minutes later, I pull up outside my apartment, feeling a little better.
Ten seconds after that, Declan pulls up too, and my mood flips from surprise through to irritation that I didn’t see him following me, through to anger that he refuses to leave me alone.
I pull my gloves and helmet off, resting them on the tank, and scowl at him. “What the fuck do you want?”
Declan takes his time killing his engine, kicking his side stand down, propping his helmet on the handlebars, then getting off his bike and walking over.
It’s like he wants me to watch him, and I can’t look away.
He moves with the grace of a dancer, if not a killer.
A predator, through and through, and I feel a thrill that’s more than just my response to his frustratingly good looks.
It doesn’t help that I’m faced once again with the blue eyes I can’t stop seeing, whether he’s with me or not.
“I told you,” he says, standing close to my bike. “I want you.”
It’s not just his words that pull at me, it’s the heat in his gaze.
I wanted passion, and it’s right there. He looks at me with a hunger so raw, my body can’t help but react.
It’s hard to take a breath. My nipples harden, and I wonder if he notices with my jacket half unzipped.
My face heats, and I don’t know if my sun-kissed skin hides that or not.
I can’t remember the last time I blushed.
And I’m very conscious of my legs spread either side of my bike, the arousal that just his look has caused, soaking my panties.
I swallow, not able to find words, and my helmet slides off the tank.
For the first time in my life, I’m too damn slow to catch it.
It’s embarrassing, it’s humiliating, it’s the sort of mistake a fucking rookie would make.
Drop the lid on the ground, and it compresses the safety build within it.
In short, you go blow a grand on a new one. Every biker knows that.
Declan bends and catches it, fingers closing around the chin guard. Six inches above the asphalt. He hands it to me without a word, no judgment in his eyes, then nods back down the street. “There’s a bar two blocks down that way. Know it?”
“Black Bear?” It comes out husky. I clear my throat. “Sure.”
“A beer and a game of pool.” His head tilts, and there’s a challenge in his tone. “You do play pool, right?”
“Of course I do.” What biker worth their salt doesn’t?
He nods. “Best of three. I win, you have to let me take you out to dinner.”
And that makes my stomach flip. I’m not even hungry, but I’m not sure I want to win.
Doesn’t mean I won’t. I’m not one to back down from a challenge. “And when I win?”
He grins. “I’ll have to let you take me out to dinner.”
Charismatic bastard.
But I refuse to make it so easy for him.
“How about I win, you walk away, never talk to me again, and never work for Kurt?”
His eyebrows rise, then he scratches at the week-old growth on his jaw. “Stakes have gone up,” he mutters.
“Can’t handle it?”
He gives a one shouldered shrug. “If you raise your end, I raise mine.”
“Fine.” I prop one elbow on my lid—making damn sure it doesn’t slide off that tank this time—and rest my chin on the back of my hand, looking up at him with all the disdain I can muster. “What’s your best shot, Romeo?”
“You win… I leave and never come back,” he muses. “I win… I’ll still go with dinner...”
I can’t help but feel disappointed; I was expecting more. “Whatever.”
“…but you’ll be dessert,” he adds.
My heart thumps in my chest, and I’m damn sure he can see my blush now.
“You’re on,” I say boldly, hooking my helmet over my handlebars and climbing off.
He gives me a slow grin, chest lifting, back straightening.
I’m going to play my best, just for the satisfaction of beating him, and because if he can’t rise to the challenge, then he can go fuck himself.
But damn… I really hope Declan Hale knows how to handle a pool cue.