Dirty Ties

“No.” I raised the kickstand with my boot and backed up the bike.

She walked alongside, her hand reaching out and gripping my bicep. “Why?”

Her voice was soft, almost too soft beneath the din of the bike, but I’d been listening for it, fucking straining to hear her. Worse, I couldn’t bring myself to jerk away from her touch.

“Logan,” Benny shouted. “Slap the bitch and burn rubber.”

I slammed my teeth together and stopped the roll of the bike. I’d forgotten Benny could hear both sides of the conversation.

Keeping the flashlight leveled, I reached up, hit the button, and killed the connection. To Kaci, I said, “I’m not giving you shit.”

Her hand tightened on my arm. “I meant, why are you acting like this? What did I do?”

Seriously? I clamped my fist on the handlebar’s grip. She should be asking her husband that question. Of course, she didn’t know I knew she was married. Hell, maybe she didn’t care. Fidelity wasn’t exactly a trait that ran in the family.

She straightened her back, standing taller beside me. Her helmet tipped down, her thick rope of hair curling around one breast, taunting me.

I needed to shut her down and deliver a direct punch that would persuade her to forget all about Evader. “You give lousy head.”

Her hand jerked away and clutched at her stomach. “Liar.”

Christ, the hurt in her voice tightened my chest. I should tell her to go fuck herself and convince her I was a belligerent asshole. Which I was. Because her mouth had damned near destroyed me. She didn’t just know how to suck my cock, she’d fucking owned it.

And she knew it.

What she didn’t know was, during that dark, heated moment in the elevator, I’d seen her face. I knew her identity, her family, and all their dirty little secrets.

Without warning, her hand shot out and gripped my balls, her thumb pressing against the stiff proof of my lie. “The truth, Evader.” The sad desperation in her tone clashed with the angry clutch of her fingers.

“Remove your fucking hand.” Grip me. Jerk it hard.

She tightened her grasp, shooting a flood of heat through my cock. She had me by the balls, and in what was clearly a moment of insanity, I fucking loved it.

I hated her for that, for making me want her, which inflamed the urge to demean her, to call her a slut, to tell her I knew she was an unfaithful wife. She deserved the full wrath of every searing thought, every pound of forbidden pleasure she’d ignited.

But from her standpoint, Evader didn’t know who she was, and it would stay that way. I didn’t want her questioning how I knew or anything about the technology I used. I needed her to forget about Evader altogether.

I grabbed her wrist and used it to force her back. “Guards are coming.”

As she looked around the empty garage, I tucked down, hit the gas, and gave it full stick. Bolting forward, I shot up the ramp, the tear of the engine vibrating my fury.

In the rear-view cam, she stomped her boot, her tits bouncing beneath the jacket, her hands balled at her sides. Then she raised an arm and flipped off my back.

Fuck her anger. She had no right to be pissed. I slammed my fist against the handlebar. Fucking whore.

Two guards lifted their heads as I zipped around the corner. I shined the flashlight in their faces, which was absurd. They’d seen me. At least they didn’t have me on video.

The garage door rose, its sensor picking up my approach. I darted beneath, and as I merged into traffic, the nauseating plunge of regret crashed in. The shaking in my hands. The erratic thump of my pulse. The image of her body beneath her leathers. The knowledge that I’d touched another man’s wife. I shifted my ass on the seat, unable to dull the discomfort between my legs.

I would see her again. Soon, in fact. But not the way I’d seen her tonight. Next time, there would be no helmets, no spark of recognition on her part. She wouldn’t even know my voice.

Really, I had no idea how our next meeting would go. I’d collected enough evidence to turn in her family. And maybe I had enough money to fight their team of crooked lawyers and put them behind bars.

But they didn’t deserve the justice of the legal system.

What about her? What was her involvement? Her access to the racing network was spectacularly unnerving and unexpected. What did she gain from it? Did she know who I was, how I was connected to her?

Impossible. Very few people knew Maura Flynt had a son. Not even Trent Anderson. But he would.

In five days, we would meet for the first time. He expected a meeting with Logan Smith, an interview candidate for some VP position with a resume of fake experience.