Chapter 18 – Thiago
Eighteen
Thiago
The second her bike tears onto the street, I understand two things. Remi Cain rides like she was born on two wheels, and I’m completely fucked.
City lights reflect across the glossy black of her helmet as she leans into the first turn. I follow behind her, watching the effortless way she moves with the machine beneath her.
Jesus.
There’s something about seeing her like this that makes it damn near impossible to keep my thoughts straight.
Her body moves with the bike as she takes another turn, her dark hair whipping behind her whenever she accelerates hard enough to send the loose strands flying.
She rides the way she does everything else, with a fearlessness and confidence that demand attention without asking for it.
I’m not even sure she realizes the effect she has.
I shouldn’t be looking at her like this, and I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about dragging her into my lap to see if she tastes as good as I remember. Knowing better isn’t doing a damn thing to stop me.
I didn’t have much of a plan for tonight. All I knew was that I wanted another chance to see her, but the problem is that I can’t even pretend Elena is the only reason anymore.
I told her that Remi needed time to grieve and that pushing too hard while she was dealing with Estela’s death and still furious with me would get us nowhere. Elena reluctantly gave me a few days, and I used every one of them.
At first, I told myself I was being strategic, but when Remi agreed to let me join her tonight, I wasn’t thinking about Helios or what I might learn by staying close to her.
I was just fucking happy she said yes.
That might be the most dangerous development yet.
My attention returns to Remi as she weaves through traffic, one hand briefly lifting to flip off a car that cuts too close. A laugh slips out before I can stop it.
I’m looking forward to tonight, not because Elena expects me to get closer or because every minute with Remi gives me another chance to learn something useful.
I realize I want to spend time with her because I enjoy being around her.
Every bit of herself she gives me, whether intentional or not, hooks a little deeper beneath my skin, and instead of thinking about how I can use it, I find myself wanting more.
I ease back into my seat, one hand loose on the wheel, and catch myself smiling like a damn idiot as I follow her through another turn. Then my phone lights up against the center console.
ELENA.
The smile disappears. I tighten my jaw and answer through the truck speakers.
“What?”
“You sound irritated,” Elena says, her voice smooth.
“I’m driving.”
“Haven’t heard from you in a few days, Operative.”
My eyes return to Remi’s bike ahead of me, her taillight glowing red against the dark.
“I wasn’t aware there was a daily check-in clause.”
Her deep inhale crackles through the speakers, and a flicker of satisfaction moves through me at the sound of her annoyance.
“You report to me whenever I ask, morning, noon, or night. And might I remind you that you don’t call the shots? One phone call is all I need to have you shipped right back to where you came from...or worse.”
She lets the silence hang after that, giving the threat time to sink in. I bite back everything I want to say and give her what she wants instead.
“I’m following her now,” I mutter through gritted teeth.
“Remember, Operative. She’s the reason you are who you are. The reason your father and thousands more were murdered in cold blood. Don’t forget it.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the disconnected call for a long moment before slamming my palm against the steering wheel.
The reason.
That’s what Elena called her, as if Remi had personally pulled the trigger. As if everybody left behind by The Six could somehow be laid at the feet of a woman who was born into this world long before she had any say in it.
I know exactly what Elena is doing. She wants me angry enough to stop asking questions, focused enough to keep digging, and detached enough to use whatever Remi gives me without caring what it costs her.
And part of what she's saying is true.
The Six has blood on its hands. My father is dead because of them, and I still don't know how deeply Remi is involved or what she might be protecting. But blaming her for every person who died before she was old enough to understand any of it is bullshit.
My eyes find her again as she weaves through traffic ahead of me.
The woman I’m getting to know bears little resemblance to the one Elena keeps describing. Every time I’m around Remi, another piece of the picture I was given no longer fits.
And I’m starting to wonder why.
I follow her into the back lot of the tattoo shop. By the time I climb out of my truck, she’s already pulling off her helmet, shaking loose her dark waves, and tucking it beneath her arm.
Our eyes meet, and I catch the subtle bite of her lower lip before she turns away. I’m still pissed off, slamming the truck door harder than necessary.
Remi looks back at me. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.” She gestures toward my truck. “You look like you want to punch something. You don’t have to be here if you don’t want to. You invited yourself, remember?”
She turns and heads toward the building.
“Remi.”
She keeps walking.
“It’s not you.” I catch up with her. “I got a phone call that put me in a shitty mood, and I’m sorry.”
She glances at me but doesn’t ask who called, and I’m grateful because that's one question I can't answer.
Remi tugs open a dark-green door, and a man in his mid-thirties with a shaved head looks up from behind the counter. His face breaks into a smile when he sees her, but his eyes narrow the moment they land on me.
“Hey, Lach,” she says, and I notice the slight change in her voice. It’s almost sweet.
“Who’s your friend?” he asks, like I’m not standing right in front of him.
“He’s with me.”
She doesn’t call me her friend or even bother to give him my name. I’m just someone she brought along, and for some reason, I hate how much that distinction bothers me.
“Oh, okay.” He reaches under the counter and tosses her a set of keys. “Lock up when you’re done. Your client said he’ll be here in about ten.”
“Got it.”
“He must trust you,” I say as we head to one of the back rooms.
“Why wouldn’t he?” she replies casually. “I’ve known Lachlan for two years now. He’s cool.”
I pick up one of the portfolios on the workstation and start flipping through it. The artwork stops me after only a few pages, and I wonder if it belongs to Remi. Her linework is incredibly clean, and each design is detailed enough that I find myself slowing down to study them.
“This is your work?”
“My mom’s an artist,” she says, and the answer surprises me. “I always wanted to be like her, so I practiced and eventually fell in love with making pretty things.”
Her fingers trail across the edge of the portfolio. “Only my canvas happens to be skin.”
“You’re really good,” I tell her, flipping another page. “Amazing, actually.”
“I know,” she says so casually that it catches me off guard, and I laugh.
“Glad we don't have to worry about your confidence.”
She grins. “Never a problem.”
“Maybe someday I’ll need a new piece.”
She doesn’t say yes, but she doesn’t say no either.
I take the chance and lightly brush the back of my hand against the sleeve of her jacket. “You do any of these yourself?”
“No. Lachlan’s done most of them. One was done by my brother.”
I know exactly who she means. Giovanni Cain is two and a half years younger than Remi, and in the photos, they look similar enough that I recognized the connection immediately.
“Your brother’s an artist too?”
“Yeah, but he prefers sketching.”
She shrugs out of her jacket as she says it, revealing the Glock holstered at her waist.
“How’s Zara doing?”
I regret asking the second her expression changes. She looks away and starts readying her station instead.
“Better. She’s spending some time out of town with her parents.”
Neither of Zara’s parents appeared in the files, and instinct has me filing that away for later. The thought leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I came here tonight because I wanted to be with Remi, yet I’m still cataloging everything she tells me as if it might become useful.
“Hey,” I say.
She looks over at me, and I hesitate before resting my hand lightly on hers.
“How are you holding up?”
Her fingers still beneath mine as she slowly lifts her eyes. “I’m okay.”
I don’t believe her, but I don’t push.
For a few seconds, neither of us moves. The tension between us feels different now, stripped of its usual push-and-pull, and I find myself wondering what would happen if we stopped fighting it.
The soft chime of the front door buzzer cuts through the moment.
“Client’s here,” she murmurs.
I pull my hand away, and she heads for the lobby while I stay behind near the station.
“You must be Jaime,” I hear her say.
“Yeah. You Remi?”
Before I hear her answer, gunfire erupts inside the shop.