Section 7
Ride or Die
Lucky
When Gia Serrano crooks one finger at you and says, “Office. Now,” there are exactly two correct responses.
One: Yes, ma’am.
Two: Oh no.
I go with a third.
“That took you longer than expected,” I say, following her into the back hallway like I’m not six seconds from being fired or murdered. “I was starting to think you hated me.”
She doesn’t look back. “I don’t have time to hate you.”
Hot.
The office door slams behind us. It’s dim, with a desk that’s seen secrets, and a couch that’s definitely seen worse. I lean against the wall and, because I am fundamentally broken, reach casually for my belt.
Gia’s eyes dart to my crotch and back. She swallows, tightening her hands into fists.
“Stop,” she says—one beat too late. My hand still hovers like a caught raccoon.
“Oh,” I say. “Not that kind of meeting?”
She looks me over, probably weighing whether she could take me in a fight. Honestly? I think she could.
“Can I trust you?” she asks.
“Uh. Depends what you’re asking.”
She studies me for a second. I smile innocently before remembering that she can’t see my face. I debate giving her thumbs up when she eventually speaks.
“I need to get somewhere,” she says. “It’s confidential.”
Oh. Okay.
“Sure. I’ll add covert chauffeur to the job description,” I say.
“I wouldn’t ask, but I’m out of my normal options.”
“Noted.” I straighten. “You good with motorcycles?”
“Yes.”
“Helmet stays on?”
She pauses. “Yes.”
I nod once. “Okay.” No jokes. No flirting.
I know. Terrifying character development.
?
Gia gets on behind me and sits exactly one inch too far back, hands hovering in the air like she’s deciding whether human contact is legal. Her spine could double as a steel rod.
We don’t move.
“You’re going to fall off,” I say.
“I am not.”
“You are,” I say gently. “Physics doesn’t care how scary you are.”
She exhales through her nose. A warning.
I turn slightly, careful, and guide her hips forward by touch alone—professional and devastatingly brief.
“Lower,” I say. “And you need to hold on.”
“I don’t—”
“Arms,” I repeat. “Around me.”
There’s a pause long enough for regret.
Then her arms slide around my waist.
Tight. Like she’s holding a loaded gun.
Unfortunately, my dick interprets this as encouragement.
Old cheese… fungus between toes… armpits… sweaty gym socks…
The bike takes off and the city becomes streaks of light and noise. She presses closer on turns, instinct taking over. Her forehead touches my back once, then doesn’t pull away.
I don’t say anything.
I like being alive.
?
The gates are already tracking us before we stop moving.
I clock the camera sweep automatically—thermal coverage hidden inside the stonework, motion sensors tucked low along the iron fence, enough overlapping angles to make sneaking onto the property feel like a creative writing exercise.
Gia dismounts, all business again.
“This is far enough,” she says. “Go back to the club.”
I nod. “Sure.”
She hesitates. Just a flicker.
“Thank you,” she adds.
Then she turns to the gate and taps two fingers against a matte black panel built seamlessly into the brick.
There’s a soft click somewhere overhead.
Then a voice:
“You’re late.”
Gia sighs. “Good evening to you, too.”
I wait until the gate closes.
Then I park the bike in the shadows and take position where I can see the gate, the windows, the street. Helmet still on. Heart doing that fun thing.
The night feels louder the second I cut the engine. I don’t know what I’m waiting for.
Trouble, probably. Maybe a chance to help. Maybe proof she comes back out. Honestly? I just don’t like the idea of leaving her here alone.
First day on the job.
So far?
Worth it.