"Thought about it. Decided it's better to show up unannounced. Gives him less time to pack up and move his operation if he doesn't want to be found…which is true nine times out of ten." He cranks the right handlebar, and the engine purrs beneath us. "Anyway," he continues as we pull out of the lot, "who says I'm worried?"
Your body says plenty, I think to myself, but I refrain from remarking on it out loud. The honed, controlled strength I can usually feel hardened beneath me as we ride is steelier than usual; Flint tenses all over with anxious energy, so much so that it's almost as if he is practically bristling in my arms. How am I supposed to play it cool about our impending meeting if he's so clearly broadcasting his own feelings about it?
Then again, maybe I've become especially sensitive to reading Flint's moods. We've spent so much time together in close physical contact these past few days, I almost feel as if I can read him like an open book. Even his facial expressions, or willful lack thereof, are becoming more familiar to me as the time passes.
And I can't deny any longer that I've loved every moment of getting to know this sexy, mysterious man. Maybe I've been solitary for a lot of my life leading up to this point, but that doesn't necessarily mean I've ever been alone. I've always been surrounded by people: friends, clients, and associates, who at the end of the day belong to my family, and more specifically my father. I can't claim a personal connection to any of them, not even members of my own family who I am necessarily tied to by blood and loyalty. I've been bustled from one opulent, crowded room to the next my whole life, increasingly paraded around like a show pony as I sprang up and got older, growing into my full feminine potential. I was never alone in my life before the road, yet I was always alone. It's a strange dichotomy, and I'm not sure it even makes sense…only that's how I feel now, riding with Flint, and realizing the full depths of my loneliness leading up to this strange and exciting point in my life.
But I shouldn't let myself dwell on the past now. That life is far behind me, and getting farther by the second. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of the men who are after me since that first fateful meeting with Flint at the bar, and I don't intend to cross paths with them again if I can help it. I'll run for the rest of my life if I have to.
We weave through the early morning streets of Omaha, stopping only for a short breakfast at the gas station as Flint refuels. I'm not complaining—food is food, and I'm the sort of woman who can put away anything and be happy—but the contrast between our night at the Ritz-Carlton and resuming life on the road leaves me feeling a bit winded. That Flint can transition so easily between the two, as if money and affluence is no object, is something to be admired.
"Lesher is located on the edge of town," Flint says. He leans against the bike with his arms crossed. As I sip my gas station coffee, I glance around at the other early morning commuters. All of them are either staring openly from their own pumps, or looking away as if they had been staring seconds before I considered the direction their eyes were turned. Flint is definitely the most intimidating person around. I've never been with the most intimidating man at the gas station before. The thought humors me, and I smile into the lid of my cup.
"Ana, are you even listening to me?" he demands. I shake my head, and squeal with surprise and delight when I feel his arms wrap around my waist and pull me into the space between his legs, still radiating the heat from our ride over. I tighten my grip on my coffee so it doesn't slip from my grasp, forgetting at the same time to concentrate on something more productive, like slipping out of Flint's grasp. But for all the fun a continuation of our little fight might be—for all the enjoyment I might get out of being the teasing pull to his incessant push—I decide being reeled in against him is exactly where I want to be.
I crane up on the tips of my toes, bringing my close-lipped smile within inches of his own. Even leaning against the frame of his bike, Flint still outmatches me in height, but I've managed to bring myself to his level. I see his own lips twitch seconds before the gloved fingers resting at the small of my back flex and yank me against him. My mouth almost parts in a surprised laugh, but the noise is silenced by his kiss.
Flint's mouth engulfs my own, hot and wet and warm. His tongue flicks against mine with an already indecent familiarity, and I sigh and ease into him—he already knows every hidden angle and secret preference that makes me weak in the knees. He's more than a quick or practiced study: he is an adept, intuitive lover. The thought of him watching me intensely even when I'm not looking his way, and of his gauging my responses and filing them away for later use, makes me feel both vulnerable and beautiful. While he might never admit it out loud, Flint, a man so recently consumed by thoughts of revenge, can't help but focus on and memorize even the smallest details that turn me on.
I'm aware that the people who were looking at us before are probably still looking, but I decide that I like that they are looking. Unlike last night's hard-won kiss under the cover of darkness, Flint is claiming me easily and publicly…and I, him. Anxiety about meeting another member of his MC, and even anxiety about the future of our deeply strange relationship, can't cut through the smell of gasoline and the heat of Flint's kiss.
#
Lesher is staring at me.
This is exactly what I didn't want.
If I thought Flint was darkly formidable, Lesher Vance is setting new records for the shadiness of blonds. I wouldn't even go so far as to call him 'blond'—his hair is closer to colorless. It's longer than Flint's own dark locks, at least on top; Lesher's hair is shaved close up the sides of his head, so close I'm surprised it hasn't nicked his skull. The hair on top is much longer, and slicked back in a way that looks more aerodynamic than greasy.
While Flint is tan from his time on the road, Lesher is paler; but then, he wears many more layers than Flint, and appears to have taken the assume leather part of the Robber Baron handbook incredibly seriously. Then again, maybe the club found him that way. He is a few inches shorter than Flint—although I wouldn't call him short by any stretch, no pun intended—and his shoulders are broader than Flint's. He looks strong and compact under all that oil-black leather; more than that, he looks in control. His eyes are a cool baby blue, as pale as the rest of him, and his expression is one of immovable indifference.
He is a strikingly handsome man, despite being a photonegative of Flint, but I can't help but feel slightly afraid of him. Even seeing Flint wield a gun with homicidal intentionality doesn't compare to the feeling of not knowing what this man is capable of. If I thought Flint was hard to read when he wanted to be, this man is a blank page in book devoid of legible words.
So yeah, I'm a little afraid of Lesher Vance. That's why I stare back openly, allowing his intense study of me to be mirrored in my own face. It's a tactic I learned growing up around intimidating men, and I'm not afraid to employ it against this stranger now.
I notice his mouth hitch slightly, almost as if he knows exactly what I'm thinking. I feel like shifting, but fight the impulse. I don't move.
We are seated across from one another at a bare kitchen table, in a spare apartment that doesn't look like it's been lived in longer than twenty-four hours. Living on the road this long I've become acquainted with the concept of burner phones, but burner apartments, which this appears to be, is something new. I find the concept interesting—I hadn't known they made those. I had better ask Flint about it later.
"Who's this?" The way Lesher's voice slides over the words, I almost expected him to call me something degrading. I finally do allow myself to shift in the chair, but it's only to cross one leg over the other.
"Who she is isn't important." I wish Flint would join us at the table, but he can't seem to sit still. Lesher had even invited him to do so when we first entered; I could tell then by the unsurprised, even disaffected greeting that met us that Flint had not expected an interview with Lesher to come this easily. Maybe that's why he won't stop pacing.
"You don't know who she is," Lesher corrects.
Flint is too distracted to notice. He walks through the naked kitchen, running his gloved fingers along each spotless surface as he summons the words to ask for help. Apparently, the ride over from the hotel wasn't enough time for him to string his request together.
If I'm feeling more than a little impatient with my lover, it's because of my increasing certainty that Lesher is more dangerous than I imagined, and not in any of the expected ways. Flint had informed me that he was more given to participating in criminal activity than the rest of the Robber Barons…a profile of the club that I've decided to tuck away and unpack later, but right now isn't the time.
Lesher is still looking at me, and as I watch—never batting an eye at the display—one upper lid lowers subtly. Is he actually winking at me? Is there any chance Flint is getting a load of this?
No. Not a chance. Flint clears his throat, and I let my full lips turn down in a scowl for Lesher's benefit. I don't appreciate being extorted, and I have a feeling it will be to my long-term benefit to let him know in advance. It might also be to my benefit to never leave Flint's side while I'm with this man…then again, what if he feels like revealing certain tidbits of information that will set Flint against me? Or worse, cause the man that I am falling in love with, despite my best intentions, to leave me? I would be devastated.
I can't let any of this show in my expression.
"So you didn't go through with it," Lesher supplies helpfully when Flint continues to struggle. "Your revenge mission. The bloody recourse you've been mapping out for years." He is surprisingly cultured despite his thuggish looks; not that I can applaud this, but the contrast is still surprising. "And now that you've royally fucked it all up because you've gained a girlfriend and grown a conscience, you're coming to me."
"That's not at all an accurate representation of what's going on," Flint threw back waspishly.
"It's a little accurate," I concede. I may not have an ally in a man like Lesher, but I have to give him props when he's right. Flint shoots me a scathing look, but seeing as this has never had anything resembling a pronounced effect on me in the past, I just shrug my shoulders.
"So what do you expect me to do about it?" Lesher sits back and crosses his arms. I shoot a look toward Flint. I've been wondering this, too.
"I need you to find me an address." Flint's assertion chills me. I narrow my eyes, trying to get him to look my way, but he won't comply. Is he planning on going after someone else from Green Star? Maybe another one of the men who tried to kill him? I remember him telling me there were three of them altogether. Discounting the failed assassination of Richards, that leaves two guilty men still out there carrying Flint's black spot.
Lesher's grin lengthens. "But that's not all," he coaxes. "Is it?"
"I want to hit them where it hurts most," Flint replies. "Their wallets. And for that I'm going to need your help…or at least, the help of your network on the other side of the law."
"And I'm going to need the help of your own wallet to motivate me to do that," Lesher says seamlessly. "I've got a big job coming up that I need to fund, and I'd rather not use my own money."
"I don't want to know about it," says Flint.
"You would if you were a good little Baron," Lesher replies. "Which, we both know, you aren't."
"I'm not like you," Flint all but spits the words. "You're a criminal. You're—"
His ire is up and his temper is provoked, and he's about to destroy his chances of getting what he needs. I cut in quickly. "You're our only hope, Mr. Vance. We've been on the road almost nonstop for the last few days, so…sorry if it seems like we're burning the candle at both ends."
Lesher looks at me for a long moment after I've said my piece. He sits like an immovable statue across from me. I can't tell if what I'm saying is having any effect, much less getting through.
He shifts, finally, and I feel some of the tension ease out my shoulders. "It's all right, Miss—"
"Ryan," I supply.
The room was quiet before, but now it goes dead quiet as I realize what I've done.
I can feel the blood draining from my face, and my stomach gives a sickening twist as I watch the slow smile spread across Lesher's own expression.
I've fallen right into his trap. I'm so, incredibly, goddamn stupid.
In an effort to play nice and keep up with his pretense of formality, I have inadvertently given him my last name. My real last name. If Lesher suspected who I was before, I've just confirmed it for him myself.
Flint has stopped his pacing, and he's watching my exchange with Lesher intently now. He can read the strangeness of what has just passed between us, even if he doesn't possess the same confirmed information that Lesher Vance does. I straighten my posture in an effort not to sink into my chair in complete defeat. Flint is no idiot. He will know that what just transpired has to do with my true identity.
The question is: will he maintain his flippant attitude that has made our traveling together possible? Or will he decide to at last take an interest in his runaway-turned-blackmailer-turned-lover?
"Miss Ryan." Lesher purrs my name. Hearing it after so long, spoken in such a sultry voice, shouldn't make my skin crawl, but it does. "It does seem as if at least one of us has been burning it at both ends. I wouldn't expect anything less from Brother Flint. If you can convince him to part with his ego long enough to make the deal he came here to make, then maybe there's something I can do for him."
"What about money?" Flint growls.
"Oh, I have no doubt that she can convince you to part with that," Lesher replies with a nasty smile. "It's a skill most women excel at."
"I'm not most women," I say scathingly as I rise from the table. It appears that negotiations between the two riders are back on, so I assume I am no longer needed.
"You're right. My mistake," Lesher responds. "You're not like most women. Not at all."
I turn from this 'compliment' so I don't have to see the expressions on their faces. Despite trying my best to play it cool, I can feel my heart beating wildly in my ribs, as fast as the first time I joined Flint on the back of his bike.
What does Lesher know, and what will he tell Flint about me? They don't seem to be close enough to share a hand, but that doesn't make me believe any less that Lesher holds cards that would be of a particular interest to Flint…
… if Flint cares at all about me. He had seemed too consumed with his own demons from the beginning that I never worried he would dig deeper into my past, but after our kiss in the parking lot, and our night spent together at the Ritz-Carlton, I'm suddenly not so sure anymore.
I yearn for intimacy with this man, the only man who can make my skin heat and my heart race with a look, but I'm not sure I can accept the consequences. If I give myself over to him fully, what will be the cost? Will he turn away from me and leave me standing in the dust, trailing behind him on the long lonely road? I've been ready for that outcome all along, haven't I?
Or would he betray me to the life I left behind and throw me back to the wolves?
I excuse myself without a word to the front room. I can hear them resuming talks now, but the walls separating us make the contents of their conversation impossible to decipher. I step outside the apartment and seat myself on the stairs, gazing down toward the parking lot. Flint's bike winks at me in the afternoon sun. I've almost grown to love it as much as the man who owns it.
And there's that word. Love. I've been anticipating and dreading its emergence in my thoughts, but it was there all along, waiting, ever since I first laid eyes on and struck a tentative partnership with the man who found me at the bar. There's no denying it anymore.
I'm in love with Flint.
And yet, I can't afford to be in love with Flint. Not when there's so much risk involved. Not when every outcome seems stacked against me. I may have moved outside the claustrophobic apartment, but it still feels as i
f the walls are steadily closing in. I once vowed I would never be at the mercy of men again, but isn't that what falling in love is? Surrendering yourself to the whims of someone else, and allowing yourself, in your newfound vulnerability, to be at their mercy…how could I let this happen?
The door to the apartment opens and closes, quietly, behind me. Telltale, heavy footfalls, and then Flint eases down on the top step beside me. I don't turn to look at him. I don't want to see the expression he wears on his face. I don't want to know what he knows about me, and by extension, how his feelings may have changed. And yet, all I want to do is lay my head against his shoulder. It's so rare that we sit side-by-side. When will I ever get the opportunity to do so again?
I resist. And Flint, if he has any similar inclinations to reach out to me, resists also.
We sit together for a long, silent moment. Through the open window of the kitchen, I can hear Lesher moving about. Richards' suitcase is conspicuously missing; I assume it was left with Mr. Vance. It seems like they managed to reach an agreement after all, then. I want to feel happy for Flint, but I can't help the sense of dread that's slowly but surely welling up inside me.
When the silence between us is broken eventually, it's Flint who does the breaking. "Who are you, Ana?" he asks quietly.
I'm not sure he expects a response. He must know that I can't give him one, and that all I can feel in the wake of his question is relief that Lesher kept his lips sealed tight and his knowledge concealed on whatever he knows.
The question is now, how long can I keep this up?
CHAPTER 12
FLINT
It's more apparent to me than ever that the woman riding on back, with her arms wrapped around me, is still a total stranger.
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