Chapter 7
I bite down on a yawn as I scale the chain-link fence surrounding the South Bay PD impound lot, thankful for the cover the dark night gives me.
I’m running on three energy drinks and a shitload of coffee.
The exhaustion from my last shift caught up with me hours ago, and between my usual nightmares and the hours I spent stewing over Grace’s threats, I barely slept at all.
I shouldn’t be here. Not when I’m like this. Tired and unfocused. Committing yet another crime on behalf of a fucking Donovan.
The charges keep racking up in my head. Theft over five thousand dollars and breaking and entering, to start. Once I get my hands on that bike, possession of stolen property. Couple other things depending on how this plays out.
So goddamn typical.
Another Donovan rolls into town, and I end up under another boot. Except this one’s got high heels and a pretty girl attached to it. A very pretty girl. Who’s also blackmailing me.
The nerve of that fucking woman.
There was a moment this morning when she was standing in my kitchen, casually threatening me, where my anger took over and I wanted nothing more than to wring her fucking neck.
Catch me on a bad day, and that’s the kind of threat I’d kill over.
Grace has no fucking idea who her scumbag brother has turned me into.
Maybe I don’t know who I’m dealing with either. While we stood nose to nose, I was thinking on my next move—do I squeeze the life out of this bitch or let her keep breathing? She got this look in her eye. Like she was daring me to do it. And when I gripped tighter, I swear to god she smiled.
That shit did something to me. Specifically to my dick.
And that’s a big fucking problem. Not only is she related to a man I’d take great pleasure in throwing into oncoming traffic, but she’s also my half brother’s sister, and Jack is possessive as fuck when it comes to the women in his life.
Thoughts like the ones I’m having feel like a surefire way to get myself punched in the face. Again.
The sooner she’s out of my life, the better.
I tug up the hood of my black sweater and pull my mask up and over my mouth and nose.
The police impound lot is only half a square kilometre, with rows of repos, seized assets, and abandoned vehicles.
The top of the fence is surrounded by barbed wire, and the only way in is through a large gate at the front.
There are cameras at the entrance, but the feeds aren’t live monitored, and the alarm only trips if the front gate is opened.
Squatting low, I shrug off my pack and take out my bolt cutters. I snip through the metal from the ground to about two feet up, stopping when I can easily pull the fence open and slide through the gap.
It takes me a second to find it, but Grace’s bike is pretty hard to miss. Nestled between a rusty Toyota Tundra and a smashed-up sedan is a gleaming Kawasaki Ninja H2 sports bike.
It’s a beautiful fucking machine.
I slide a gloved hand over the arc of the handlebars, down the curve of the black carbon-fibre to the sleek, leather seat. Maybe I’ll take it for a spin before handing it over to her, because fuck, it must ride like a goddamn dream.
I’ve always liked motorcycles. Think I broke my old man’s heart a little the day I bought one, given my family’s history with the Sinners. But I couldn’t help myself. A bike is freedom. Open air, wind in my face, asphalt beneath my feet. I like fast. And I’d bet this thing is real fucking fast.
“Jesus, Decker, you wanna buy that thing a drink first or what?”
Heart plunging into my stomach, I jump and move for the piece I tucked into the back of my pants.
But when the person who snuck up on me comes into focus, I freeze.
“Grace,” I grit, my relief quickly turning to anger. I let go of my gun and tug down my mask. “What the hell are you doing here?”
She pulls down the dark bandanna concealing the bottom half of her face and smiles.
Like me, she’s wearing all black. Except she’s clearly not all that accustomed to committing theft.
In skintight jeans, a leather jacket barely zipped up over her tits, and a knit tuque that does nothing to hide her hair, the girl is asking to be fucking caught.
Cameras tag her, and it won’t be hard to figure out who she is. Especially when this bike goes missing.
“Just wanted to make sure you’re following through with our agreement,” she says.
Deep. Fucking. Breaths.
“You did that already with the blackmail. You tell me to do something, and if I don’t, you ruin my entire existence. I’m handling it. So get the fuck out of here.”
She crosses her arms, pushing her tits together. “And how am I supposed to trust you’ll get me what I asked for?”
Something tells me Grace might be new to the whole extortion thing.
Telling me what’s hiding in her bike was a whole lot of stupid.
Between the coke and the cash, there’s probably about a hundred grand worth of contraband in this thing.
I can name a few people whose lives are worth far less than that.
And since she came to me and not the Sinners, she’s obviously into some shady shit she doesn’t want them to know about.
I could kill her and take it for myself, and her brothers would be none the wiser.
I’ve taken men out for less, but usually when I end a life, it’s because the scarier Donovan in this town has directed me to do so.
I’m not usually in the business of committing murder for funsies.
I sigh. “You trust I’ll do it because I said I would.”
She walks around the bike, trailing her hand over the shining paint just as I did a minute ago, and stops less than a foot away from me. She angles up her face, exposing her neck.
Fuck, the move makes me want to put my hand around it again. Just how hard will Grace let me squeeze?
“You expect me to take you at your word? Please.” She scoffs. “I’m here to supervise.”
“I won’t ask again,” I say, my tone laced with warning as I take a step closer. “I’m not gonna let you?—”
“Let me?” She arches a brow and closes the almost nonexistent distance between us. Tits pressed to my chest, eyes full of fire, she stretches that neck, showing me that damn throat again. “How you gonna make me, Linc?”
Another fucking dare. Do it. Show me what kind of man you’ve become .
I take the bait.
With slow, precise movements, I grasp her throat.
Like I knew it would, her breath catches.
The grip I have on her is loose, forgiving, as I test her, watch her expression.
Not an ounce of fear on her face. The woman is all defiance, all challenge.
She’s daring me to do something, and I’m fucking tempted.
I rub my thumb over her skin, and a rush of goose bumps erupts under my palm.
When I squeeze, just a little, she swallows, and that little fucking smile is back, egging me on, telling me to go harder.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I think I might want to get Grace Donovan naked.
“Linc,” she whispers, gaze locked on mine.
“Gracie.”
Her eyes are glassy in the light of the moon. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to fuck me.”
I smirk. “You first.”
A loud squeak sounds in the distance. Metal on metal. The screech of hinges.
I snap up straight, focus fixed in the direction of the gate.
Gracie lets out a huff. “I wasn’t looking at you like?—”
I press my palm to her mouth and silence her. “Shh. Hear that?”
She freezes, listening, her eyes widening slightly.
We’re not alone anymore.
I release her. “Time to go.”
“My bike.”
“Forget the bike.”
“I can’t,” she whisper-shouts. “Or are you forgetting what’s inside?”
Footsteps. Boots on gravel. Low voices. The beep of a radio. Fuck.
“I’ll try again tomorrow. It’s not going anywhere.” I grab her by the arm and give it a tug. “We’re leaving.”
She wiggles out of my grasp. “No. Give me my keys.”
There’s a shake in her tone. Makes me think that whatever shady shit she’s pulling has gotten her into some trouble.
The voices get closer. I recognize them. Fuck. Fuuuuuuck.
“Linc, please,” she begs. This time she’s the one grasping my arm.
There isn’t time. Neither of us can get caught here. But my instincts are screaming at me, telling me this bike is why we suddenly have visitors.
I can’t leave that shit hidden in there or Grace is looking at real prison time.
I clutch her again, directing her to the nearest truck and forcing her down. “Hide.”
Silently, she rolls under the vehicle, disappearing from sight.
Yanking her key from my pocket, I rush to the rear of the bike.
Just as I’ve located the keyhole that’ll unlock the seat, there’s a laugh.
The glow of flashlights. The muffled conversation is getting clearer.
I jam in the key, twist, and tug the rear seat off.
With my flashlight, I search the inside, immediately finding a small pouch.
The cash, I assume. I snatch it up and shove it into the front of my jeans.
More voices. They’re just around the corner.
I kill my flashlight and run through a list of plausible explanations. Just out for an evening stroll in the locked-up police impound lot where I come all the time to do things that are definitely not illegal.
Silently cursing myself, I yank up the rider seat. There it is. Sitting on top of the battery. I pull a cocaine-brick-sized black pouch out of the hollow and slap both seats back on.
“This way,” a deep voice says.
With a final press on both seats, I lunge to the ground and roll under the truck.
Just as feet appear around the corner, I move onto my side, giving our visitors my back, and twist into the shadow of the truck we’ve taken refuge under.
The move puts me nose to nose with Grace.
Her dark eyes are level with mine, that little smirk still tilting up at the edges of her mouth.
She shifts closer, her hand sliding to my waist, her fingers finding skin.