Chapter 39 – remi
Thirty-Nine
remi
“Let me take you for a ride, baby.”
I don’t bother looking at the owner of the voice because I’m already running dangerously low on patience.
Traffic has been at a standstill for the past fifteen minutes. Normally, I’d split lanes to find a break in the congestion, but cars are packed bumper to bumper as far as I can see.
“Come on, pretty girl. I promise you’ll enjoy it.”
I tighten my grip on the handlebars and stare straight ahead. I’ve learned that engaging only encourages men like this, and I have enough on my mind without entertaining some random stranger who thinks yelling at women from his car window is a legitimate way to spend an afternoon.
The light ahead turns green, but nobody moves, and a chorus of useless horns erupts around me.
“That’s a beautiful bike.” He continues. “I’ve got a couple at home you can ride—”
“Don’t,” I snap, cutting him off.
For a second, his brow creases, and I think the message got through, but then he laughs.
“Damn. Feisty. I love that.”
There are too many witnesses for me to do what I’d really like to do, so I roll my eyes and force myself to ignore him.
Traffic inches forward, and I ease off the clutch, hoping movement will finally end the conversation. Unfortunately, the black sedan beside me creeps forward too.
“What’s your name?”
I finally turn to look at him.
The man appears to be in his late fifties, wearing expensive sunglasses and a collared shirt. A wedding band catches the sunlight as he lifts his hand.
Naturally, the asshole is married.
“My name is Not Interested.”
His grin widens. “Well, Not Interested, I’m—”
“Having a midlife crisis?”
His mouth falls open.
“Respectfully, fuck off.”
Before he can respond, traffic finally begins moving. I twist the throttle, slip through an opening, and leave him behind, but not before flashing him the middle finger over my shoulder for good measure.
I slow when brake lights stack up ahead and assume there’s been another accident or more roadwork. Then I catch sight of flashing lights as police cruisers block off the intersection, while yellow tape and barricades force traffic to detour around whatever is happening beyond them.
I barely pay attention until I spot a BearCat with Philadelphia SWAT painted across the side.
My stomach drops to my ass.
Seeing a SWAT vehicle doesn’t mean Thiago is here, but my brain doesn’t give a shit about logic. Before I can think better of it, I pull my motorcycle to the curb and kill the engine, tuck the helmet beneath my arm, and make my way toward the crowd gathered behind the barricades.
As I weave through them, I scan every face, including every officer standing near a patrol car or clustered around the command post. I know it’s ridiculous, but I could pick Thiago out of a lineup of a hundred men. I refuse to examine what that says about me.
A helmet skids across the pavement and rolls to a stop a few feet away. Its owner mutters a curse and jogs after it. He bends to retrieve it, then glances up.
Recognition flashes across his face the moment our eyes meet, and it takes me another second to place him. I don’t remember his name, but I’ve seen him before. He was with Thiago at the range.
“Hey,” he says as he straightens. “You’re Braga’s girl.”
Not that long ago, I would’ve rolled my eyes at the implication. Now, after three days of silence and entirely too much overthinking, hearing someone call me that way sends an unexpected warmth through my chest. The fact that I don’t correct him might be even more ridiculous.
I nod. “Yeah. Is he—”
“Tell him we miss him.”
My heart gives a violent thud.
“Miss...him?” I ask.
“Yeah. Tell him to get his ass back to work too. A guy his size has no business letting a simple flu take him out.”
I stare at him as the panic that flared inside me gives way to confusion. “Thiago’s sick?”
He stares back at me, his brow furrowing. “You didn’t know? He’s been out for the last three days.”
While I’ve been stewing in anger and replaying our argument, Thiago has been laid up at home with the flu. Before I can ask anything else, someone calls out the officer’s name from across the perimeter.
“I’ve got to go.”
He gives a quick nod in farewell before heading back toward the others.
I remain behind the barricade, clutching my helmet to my side as people move around me. The anger I’ve been carrying vanishes almost instantly, and guilt rushes in to take its place.
I’ve spent days convincing myself that Thiago didn’t care enough to call, even though I was the one who told him not to. Some stupid part of me still expected him to ignore me, to show up anyway and prove that I mattered enough for him to fight me over it.
Meanwhile, he’s been home sick, and I never once checked on him.
That makes me feel even more like an asshole. If the roles were reversed and I disappeared, I know exactly what Thiago would do. He’d show up at my door, whether I wanted him there or not. By the time I realize I’ve made a decision, I’m already heading back to my bike.
Now it’s my turn to show up anyway.