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?”