by Pam Godwin
On the other side of the street, tattooed, bearded brutes and their voluptuous women straddled choppers and cruisers. As I passed, their fuck-off vibes and explicit banter strained the chilly air and crawled down my spine.
The distant sirens, the flash of knives and guns tucked in waistbands, and the general paranoia innate to an assembly of criminals created an atmosphere that pulsed with danger. An ambiance where the country’s worst crime rate met its soul mate.
Flasks in hands, engines growling, cigarettes drooping from lips, and fingers groping exposed cleavage, this was how the roughnecks partied. A far leap from the social graces and black tie affairs I’d spent a lifetime stifling yawns through.
I should’ve been terrified. Maybe I was. Adrenaline-induced fear was part of the appeal, after all, and my body buzzed with a heady mix of excitement and caution.
Ironic how this was the world I felt most comfortable in. Here, the danger was predictable, tattooed, and armed with bullets. Unlike the office, where the threat hid behind calculating smiles and opulent charity events.
My senses on high alert, I maneuvered through the outskirts of the commotion until I spotted an empty street a couple blocks from the finish line. Evader would tear through the finish line any moment. I wouldn’t be able to see him take the win from two blocks away, but I promised Collin I’d always lay low and out of sight.
With a regretful sigh, I motored away from the crowd. I carried a Springfield .40 cal wedged in my waistband, the comforting steel warming my tailbone. I’d removed my license plate a few miles back. And I never took off my helmet, never let my visor linger on any one person. Even with these precautions, I’d fended off bikers more times than I cared to count.
It wasn’t like I couldn’t afford to hire a security team—wouldn't that have been cool?—but armed guards would ruin the whole minimize-attention-while-living-rebelliously thing I was going for.
I passed an alley close to the crowd, but it held deep, unoccupied shadows. A much better viewpoint of the finish line. Would it be safer than the open street farther down? Probably not, but dammit, I came here for a reason. To escape work. To escape Trent hounding my ass and fucking with my mind. To escape the emptiness of my bed. I came for a glimpse, for a fantasy to materialize in the flesh.
Screw Collin and his lay-low promise. I wouldn’t be front and center for the finish, but I wouldn’t miss it, either.
Backing the bike into the alcove, I lowered the kickstand and switched off the engine. Hidden and silent. A glimpse through the mob confirmed no one was looking at me, their focus locked on the race and each other.
The steel supports of the surrounding bridge rattled my bones as one of Chicago’s ‘L’ trains zoomed overhead. But this position would give me the perfect glimpse of him when he broke from the horde, his shoulders squared with aggression and his body pressed so close to the bike he might as well be fucking it. God, the man was a fearless, panty-soaking badass in black leather.
The rowdy hoots and cranking throttles escalated, followed by the distinct purr of his 999 cc inline-4. My thighs tightened around the frame of the bike as I strained my neck, searching for a gap in the press of chrome and leather.
Something shifted at the edge of my periphery. My hackles raised, and I jerked my head.
A hand swung out from behind and caught my throat. A huge, calloused hand with jabbing fingers, clamping down, threatening my airway.
My pulse spiked as I grabbed at my neck and lunged to the side, jerking away. But the hand held me immobile, tightening. I gasped, clawing at the fingers. Fuck me, this couldn’t be happening. Shock chilled my blood as my gaze flew to the key in the ignition. I reached for it.
“Don’t move.” A masculine voice to match the strength of his grip.
Keep your cool. Don’t freak out. My chest rose and fell with the heave of my lungs. I was freaking the fuck out. “What do you want?” A squeak.
His hand clamped harder as he shifted to stand before me. Wrinkles indented his bald head. Sleeveless leather jacket, rugged jeans, and faded ink on his neck and arms, he sported the standard uniform for this scene.
His soaring height and broad shoulders blocked my view of the street. His cryptic smile drained the blood from my face, leaving a tingling chill in my cheeks.
The gun in my waistband grew heavy. Could I draw it and flick off the safety before he disarmed me? I lowered my fists to my lap and swallowed around the vise of his fingers. “Let me go.”
His hard gaze flicked over the Ducati, my leather-clad legs, and lingered on my visor, squinting as if trying to see my face through the shield. “Nice bike. Titanium parts, programmable electronic sequential gearbox, carbon fiber gas tank? Shit, you’ve got what? A couple hundred G’s in upgrades alone?”
So he wanted to rob me. A relief really, considering the alternatives. If you survive this, buy a cheap damned bike and dress like a felon.
My muscles trembled to hand over the bike. But rage drew my fingers around my hip, reaching for the gun.
His grip squeezed painfully hard and closed off my air. Blinding agony spread through my throat, burning my lungs. I grabbed with both hands, trying to pry away his fingers, my bulky gloves hindering my ability to latch on.
He raised his free hand and scratched the stubble on his jaw with a vicious-looking blade.
Oh God, I was in deep shit. “Help.” My shout roared through my head, but it escaped without breath or sound. Time slowed as I focused on my laboring heartbeat and my desperate need for air. Surely, he wouldn’t kill me. I couldn’t die silently, right here, where hundreds of people gathered just yards away.
But my hiding spot was too deep inside the alley, smothered in darkness. So damned stupid, Kaci.
The crowd was engaged in the race, screaming and cheering, with their backs to us. Not that they could’ve heard me over the thunder of all those engines and the passing trains above.
Black spots swarmed my vision. My helmet grew heavy, constricting, my feet kicking the pavement.
He glanced over his shoulder and back to me, deep grooves rutting his bald head. “Scream all you want. No one will hear you.” He loosened his grip but didn’t let go.
I sucked in rapid, painful breaths, my fingers gripping his, and choked, “I’ll step off the bike.” And reach for my gun. “Key’s in the ignition. Take it.” So I can put a bullet in your skull, motherfucker.
He stepped back to give me room, but as I slid off the seat, he didn’t release my neck and instead used it to shove my back against the wall of the building. “What’s a rich little thing like you doing in a place like this all alone?”
The sirens grew louder, closer, and I clung to that sound with my pulse in my throat. “Cops are coming.” I kicked out a boot and collided with his shin.
He grunted, and in a blink, we became a kicking, shoving tussle of arms and legs. I yanked at the fingers on my throat and reached for the gun at my back. But he pinned me with his weight and trapped my hand between my back and the wall.
I whipped my helmet forward and crunched his nose. He roared and slammed a knee into my thigh, forcing my legs apart. I wound up pressed against the wall, one hand yanked high up my back and the cold steel of his blade against my throat.
My free hand wrapped around his wrist, trying to stay the weapon that was an impulse away from cutting me. Police sirens rang out one maybe two blocks away. I closed my eyes, opened them. “You’re out of time, Baldy.”
He laughed. “The cops have enough going on out there”—he nodded to the street—“to keep them occupied for a while.”
Fuck, he was right. Soon, they would be chasing bikes all over the city. How long would it take for a squad car to shine a light into this alley?
Too long. I bucked beneath him, screaming and thrashing uselessly, panting with noisy breaths. Jesus, calm down. I loosened my hold on his wrist and relaxed my fingers. Deep inhale. Exhale.
“We’re going to walk toward that door.” He thrust his chin t
oward the back of the alley.
A door? The realization had been there, but now it bathed my core in ice. He wasn’t here for my bike. Fear gathered in my throat, and it felt way too much like a sob. Not good, not good, oh holy fuck, not good.
The growl of passing motorcycles ricocheted through the alley, but I couldn’t turn my head to look at the street. The race must’ve ended. Everyone was fleeing.
My exhales came hot and fast, stifling the interior of the helmet. “Where does the door go?” A crowded bar? A secluded hallway? Please let it be a bar.
He ground his pelvis against my hip, his erection shooting my pulse into overdrive. “A garage. My car. Let’s go.”
My hands shook, one wrapped around his wrist, the other pinned to my back, inches from the gun. If he disarmed me and I stepped into his car, I was dead. I twisted against his weight, each jerk sliding the blade over my throat.
The rumble of another passing bike sounded close, really close, but I still couldn’t turn my head. The burn of steel cutting the vulnerable spot beneath my chin watered my eyes and gritted my teeth.
My knuckles grazed the butt of the gun. Would he shove the blade in if I moved my arm? I would have to be quick. I jerked my hand.
A fist shot out from my left, slamming into Baldy’s jaw and dislodging the knife.
My hand went for my throat, the other for my gun, as he sprawled across the ground and cupped his nose. Blood spurted between his fingers, his wide-eyed glare locked on the blur lunging at him again. A blur of long, lean, enraged masculinity.
The owner of the unerring fist moved with lethal ferocity, black leather encasing the hard lines of his body. A body I’d recognize anywhere.
I didn’t blink, didn’t breathe, afraid I’d miss the black helmet, black boots, and lightning-fast fist that was now pounding the ever-loving shit out of Baldy’s face. I was dreaming, and oh sweet Jesus, what an exquisite dream.
Wake up.
I shook myself from the paralyzed stupor and drew the .40 cal from my back, flicked off the safety, and strode toward the wrestling bodies.
Sirens screamed past the alley, the roar of motorcycles vibrating the ground and bellowing in my ears. Baldy lay on his back, swinging his fists and nailing shots on Evader’s stomach, ribs, and throat.
My pulse rushed past my ears, and the gun shook in my hands. I lined up the sights and aimed the barrel at Baldy’s bloody face. “Hands above your head.”
I cringed at my quivering voice, but I did know how to use a gun. Collin and I shot targets at the range a few times a year. And fuck, I wanted to apply what I’d practiced.
Baldy raised his arms and interlaced his fingers on his head. Yeah, he’d done this before.
Evader knelt over him, his strength visible in the stretch of the jacket over his back and shoulders. His helmet cocked, angled in my direction. “I had this.”
Oh my God, his voice. Okay, it was definitely synthesized, his timbre humming with an electronic overlay, but it was deep and gravelly and so goddamned sexy.
Pull yourself together, Kaci. He was far more dangerous than the man who just attacked me.
“Get out of here.” I nodded to the street behind me, and as if on cue, another squad car zoomed by. “I’ll hold him until you’re gone.”
What was I saying? I didn’t want him to leave.
I thought I heard a chuckle, but couldn’t be sure with the whine of sirens and exhaust pipes. He looked back at Baldy, swung an arm, and knocked him out. Damn. Okay, that worked too.
I lowered the gun. “You won the race?”
“Of course.” He rose and erased the distance between us in three strides.
My nerves shivered, overloaded and amped up, and oh God, he was just standing there, heating the air around me, staring at me. What did he want? I opened my mouth to spew a gushing thank you.
He snatched the gun from my hand.
What the? “Give that ba—”
He lifted my chin and stroked a gloved finger over the nicks on my throat. Each caress irritated the cuts, but I didn’t want him to stop. He raised the finger in front of my visor, blood soaking the leather tip. “Have you learned your lesson?”
His voice reverberated through me, and my knees weakened. Even with the electronic distortion, he sounded pissed.
My heart panted, and a throb swelled, hot and needy, between my legs. All because of a pissed-off synthesized voice? I might’ve just swallowed my self-respect, but I couldn't help it. My body had one mission, and that mission vibrated against me like he wanted to tear me in half. Damn me to hell, but my inner muscles clenched at the thought.
I touched my throat and flinched at the bite of pain. “It’s just a scratch.”
The reflection of my helmet in his visor wavered as he shook his head. He gazed down on me as if he were…considering something? God, I wished I could see his face, his eyes.
His finger returned to my throat, trailed a path beneath my chin, lifting it and catching on the edge of the helmet. He tugged it, like he wanted to rip off the shield and see my eyes, too. “Get on your bike, sweetheart.”
He flicked the safety on the gun and gripped my shoulders, turning my body to face the bike. Both bikes. His and mine side-by-side. Oh, how I loved the sight of that.
His fingers touched my hip, slipping beneath my jacket to stroke my bare skin. I trembled against the brush of his glove, until he opened his mouth. “This is your last race.”
The temperature in my helmet rose by ten degrees, and my cheeks inflamed. I glared at him over my shoulder. “Excuse me?”
Smack. A stinging jolt of fire rippled over my ass, and I shuffled forward. He fucking hit me! I placed my hands on the bike’s seat, and unbidden, a grin took hold of my face. He fucking spanked me.
His hands returned to my hips, lifting the hem of the jacket. Then he wriggled the gun beneath my waistband. “Go.”
More sirens filled the street. Shit. I hurried onto the bike and started the engine. Beside me, he straddled his BMW S1000RR and fired it up.
I rolled forward to the mouth of the alley and looked back. He hadn’t moved, his helmet pointed toward me, his body upright and still.
My chest tightened. I wasn’t ready to say good-bye. What if this was the only encounter we ever had?
“You coming?” I shouted over the pipes. The image of him coming curled my lips into an immature, hopeful, and probably goofy-as-hell smile. Good thing he couldn’t see it.
He studied me for a heated moment then lowered into a tuck against his bike and yelled, “After you. You can count on it.”
My smile stretched so far across my face, it hurt. I mirrored his lean, opened the gas, and squealed into the street.
Blue and red lights filled my vision on all sides. Most of the cops were in the process of detaining bikers, but several cruised up and down the perimeter. Like the one that just pulled in behind us.
I gave it more gas and tore away, Evader right on my tail. The Ducati had a faster top-speed than his BMW, but I didn’t have the balls to push it over 200 mph. Even now, our 160 mph speed scared the bejesus out of me. I half-expected him to pass me, but as the flashing lights faded behind us, we fell into a steady clip with me in the lead.
Adrenaline surged through my bloodstream as we blew through red lights and zipped the wrong way on one-way streets, weaving around traffic and narrowly missing oncoming cars. Breaking all these laws might’ve exploded my heart if I were alone, but having him with me, trusting he had my back, it was crazy liberating.
In fact, I kind of hoped he would try to pass me so I could show him the top speed of my bike.
A few minutes later, I veered onto the freeway. Figured it was the best way to escape the traps of downtown streets.
But where to now? Would he follow? Hope fluttered in my belly, and my limbs tingled. I didn’t know what I was hoping for exactly. To see his face? Fat chance. To hear his voice again? Yes, please. To fuck with our helmets on? Awkward, but I’d take it.
Watching his headlights in my side mirrors, I stayed on 290 until Ashland Ave and turned north toward Union Park. Plenty of baseball diamonds, tennis courts, unlit corners in the playground…yeah, unlit corners.
I swear, I hadn’t smiled this much since that time Collin secretly filmed Donny McKnight, my high school crush, taking a shower in the locker room. Damn, that boy had a tight ass.
When I reached Union Park, I slowed to a stop in an empty parking lot beside the basketball courts. Evader slid in beside me, and I struggled to keep my breathing at a normal tempo.
His long legs braced on either side of his bike, and his gloved hands rested on his knees. He didn’t speak, simply watched me from an arm’s length away. It was surreal to be this close to him. How many people saw him outside of the races? Who was he when he wasn’t shrouded in black and straddling a bike? And the question every woman in the city wanted answered? Was his face as viciously sexy as his body?
He rolled his neck on his shoulders and flexed his fingers. “Got a name?”
God, that voice. I bit the tip of my tongue as heat bloomed between my legs. “Yeah. You?”
“I’ve got a couple.” He lifted a boot, resting it on his frame slider, and perched a forearm on his knee. The movement brought his helmet so, so close to mine. “Why are you here, rich girl? All alone with a known felon? What do you want?”
The better question was, why would he follow someone like me? What did he want? I should feel him out, play the brazen hussy I was sure he was used to dealing with.
I leaned over my bike and propped my elbows on the gas tank, stretching out my body for his eyes. “I pegged you for a fuck-first, ask-questions-later kind of guy.”
His low, digitized chuckle sizzled my pleasure centers as he leaned his head back, revealing a shadow of stubble beneath the strong lines of his jaw. When his helmet lowered, he reached out and trailed gloved fingers along the back of my thigh, around my ass, my hip, then repeated the caress, slowly, torturously.
The angle of his helmet followed the shape of my body and the movement of his hand, the exploration lighting up my insides with an electric buzz. Did he like what he saw? My breath quickened. Did he want to see more?