"Why's a veteran homicide detective handling a missing persons case? Foul play suspected?”
Something flashes in his eyes—anger, maybe. Or frustration. “Personal favor. She's got issues. Could be a danger to herself. Her family’s worried sick." My eyes narrow in suspicion, and Russo continues. “She needs her medication." He taps his temple with his right hand. "Not all there."
Bullshit. Every word from his mouth stinks of it.
“Well,” I push off from the car, crossing my arms and keeping my voice level. “Ain’t seen a soul tonight. Just me and the ghosts up here, Detective.
Russo's eyes narrow as he studies my face, looking for tells. Good luck with that, asshole.
"Mind if I take a look around? Just to be thorough."
"Actually, yeah, I do mind." My voice drops to the gruff and menacing tone that intimidates the fuck out of people, and I can see Russo’s affected. "This is private property, and unless you've got a warrant, you can fuck right off."
He looks me up and down, taking in the cut, the tattoos, the general aura of don't-fuck-with-me I've cultivated over theyears. "Now, there's no need to be hostile. I'm just trying to do my job.”
"And I'm just trying to protect my constitutional rights."
He stares at me a beat too long before speaking. "Been a long time since that Halloween night, hasn't it, Reynolds? What’s it, ten years now?"
My fingers itch to grab the gun holstered at my side. "Something like that."
"Shame how things work out sometimes." His smile doesn't reach his eyes.
We stare at each other for another long moment, the air crackling with years of animosity. Finally, Russo puts the car in drive. “Well, if you happen to spot her, call the station.”
"Sure thing, Detective." The words are tinged with derisive mocking, and I hold his stare, refusing to blink, as the window slides up.
When the taillights disappear around the bend, I stride back to my bike.
"Aria?" I call out, scanning the shadows. Nothing moves. Fuck. Did she bolt? Can't blame her if she did, but the thought of her out in this weather alone, with Russo hunting her down?—
Movement near the doorway catches my eye. When Aria emerges from the darkness, trembling slightly, relief crashes through me with surprising force.
"Is he gone?" she rasps, eyes wide and terrified.
"Yeah. He's gone." I study her face. "You know him."
It's not a question, but she nods anyway, fingers twisting nervously in the hem of my rain jacket she’s wearing.
Everything in me wants to wrap her in my arms protectively and shield her from whatever demons are chasing her.
Fuck, I’ve never reacted this way to a woman before, and I’m not sure exactly what to do with it. I mean, I know what to do witha woman. Fuck, yeah, I do. But this one, this beautifulbroken little sparrow, she’s not like the hardened biker chicks that hang around the club. There’s an innocence, a naiveté to her. And she’s young. Like very young. I don’t even know if she’s legal. Good god, I hope she’s legal. I’d hate to find out I’m perving over an underage chick.
“Let's get out of here," I say, nodding toward my Harley.
She hesitates, her eyes dart to the road, and I realize what this looks like—some strange man taking her to a second location. For all she knows, I could be worse than whatever she's running from. But after she searches my face for several heartbeats, she simply nods.
I secure a helmet over her head before swinging my leg over the bike and patting the seat behind me. "Arms around my waist. Lean when I lean. Hold tight."
Her small body presses against my back as she settles behind me, her arms tentatively circling my middle. That possessiveness flares again at the feel of her pressed against me, and I peel away from the mansion, feeling her grip tighten as we accelerate.
The ride to my shop takes longer than normal through rain-slicked streets. When we pull into the alley behind Reaper’s Ink, my custom tattoo parlor, and she slides off the bike, I feel a strange sense of loss with her arms no longer wrapped around me. Never had a chick on the back of my bike before. I liked it. No, I likedheron the back of my bike. She feels right.
"This is where you live?" She looks up at the narrow building squeezed between a head shop and a pawnbroker.
"Above the shop." I kill the engine and lead her to the external staircase that climbs the building's back wall.
My place isn’t much—open-plan living room and kitchen, bedroom off to the side, bathroom near the entrance. But it's clean and secure.
