Although, she did rather need her brain. For things. And stuff.
“Chloe.” Red’s voice was loud in the deserted car park, so deep it almost made her jump out of her clothes. Wait, no: skin. She meant skin.
“Yes?” she squeaked, dragging her gaze from the enormous bike to the enormous man standing beside it.
His eyebrows were raised, his lips slightly tilted. That was his resting expression, the opposite of her chronic bitch face: happy, curious, open, friendly. Why did she even like him?
Wait a moment—did she like him?
“You okay?” he asked.
“Fine,” she said brightly. “Just thinking about the potential likelihood of brain decimation.”
His smile widened at that, slow and steady and achingly handsome. Ridiculous man. Brain decimation was a serious business.
“You got any hard numbers on that?” he asked. “Odds, percentages?”
She scowled. “No, but if you’d give me a minute I could probably calculate some.” That would wipe the amusement off his face, guaranteed. She pulled her phone out of her pocket, because of course her vintage-replica swing skirt had pockets. There was a reason sartorial upheaval hadn’t been mentioned on her Get a Life list; Chloe was already the coolest dresser on the planet. “Where do you think I’ll find the most reliable crash statistics? Gov.uk?”
“Maybe,” he mused. “Or maybe, I don’t know . . . ScaredyCats.com?”
She looked up with a scowl, outraged. “What on earth is that supposed to—?”
He held out a big, clunky-looking helmet and interrupted her quite happily. “Give me your glasses.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” she snapped, yanking the helmet out of his hands. She eyed it suspiciously, then studied the motorbike compartment he’d pulled it out of. The compartment that also doubled as a seat. Hmm. That didn’t suggest the sort of structural integrity she typically desired in a vehicle.
“Glasses might not fit under the helmet,” he said mildly. “It’s full-face. You know, to reduce the chances of brain decimation.”
She snorted, was silent for a moment as she studied the helmet. Then, in a fit of irritation, she muttered, “Don’t act as though it hasn’t crossed your mind.”
Something hot and wild sparked in his gaze, a sort of sharp-edged teasing that reminded her of a wolf on the hunt. He leaned toward her over the bike and asked, “As though what hasn’t crossed my mind?”
She shivered slightly, despite the thermal vest under her clothes and the jacket she’d picked up from her flat. And she remembered what had happened in his bedroom, when she’d fallen on top of him like a ninny, and sparks of sheer sensation had taken over her entire body. After a shamefully long silence, she blurted, “Brain decimation. The risk of brain decimation has definitely crossed your mind.”
He gave her a crooked smile that seemed, for a moment, oddly triumphant. Then he straightened, shrugged, running a hand through all that glorious, sunset hair. “I don’t let myself worry about that. If I die, I die. Could happen on this bike if I’m not careful or my luck blows. Could happen tomorrow morning if I trip and fall in the shower.” He grabbed his own helmet. “You still in? It’s okay if you’re not.”
She swallowed down her instinctive response, the worries she never voiced. Things like I could get hit by a drunk driver in broad daylight while walking down the street. I could fall in the shower, not by chance, but because that’s what I do. I fall sometimes. I could fall right now, and hit my head, and die.
Except, if she fell right now, she had the oddest feeling Red wouldn’t let her hit the ground.
She took off her glasses, turning his face into a pretty haze of pale cream and red-gold. “I’m in.”
“Good.” She could hear the grin in his voice. While she shoved on the helmet, he put her glasses . . . somewhere. The fact that she didn’t know exactly where, and didn’t really care, was testament to her new footloose and fancy-free attitude. She’d been right about her plan, about her list: the process of completing each task involved multiple adjustments in attitude and countless bite-sized moments of bravery, and those would all add up. By the time she finished, she’d have more than check marks and a few stories to tell.
She’d have a life.
The world beneath the helmet was strange and insulated, and her lack of sight didn’t help, but Red talked to her. Like he knew she’d need some kind of guiding light, some reassurance. He said, “I’m touching you now,” and then he did. His hands began fiddling with her helmet, adjusting it until it felt more comfortable. Then he zipped up her jacket. The action was brisk, over in a second, but it felt weirdly intimate in a way that made her stomach dip.
Which was silly. So, so silly. Who cared if he’d zipped up her coat? That was something parents did for their children. Clearly, he thought of her as a child. Which annoyed her on multiple levels, a few of which she didn’t feel comfortable examining right now.
He, of course, was completely unaffected throughout her mental debate. “All you need to do,” he said, with his typical mix of easygoing authority, “is keep your feet on the rests and hold on to me. I’ll get on first and hit the throttle. It’s loud. Don’t freak out.”
Apparently, despite witnessing her Lara Croft–like tree climbing the other day, he still thought she was the sort of woman who needed to be warned about loud noises. Depressingly, he was right.
He straddled the bike, and she wondered absently if he might be persuaded to straddle her. Purely so that she could cross item number five, meaningless sex, off of her list. She dismissed that rogue thought instantly, however; Redford wasn’t a suitable candidate. Aside from the fact that his hotness was vaguely terrifying, she couldn’t sleep with men who were clients, or men who lived just across the courtyard, or men who already knew certain things about her health and would therefore nervously reject all advances as if her vaginal canal were made of glass.
The bike roared to life like an angry lioness. She managed not to jump and was very proud of herself.
“Get on,” Red told her.
She held her skirt down awkwardly as she swung one leg over the chrome beast. And then, there she was, sitting casually on a motorbike. It thrummed, huge and hot and weighty, between her thighs. And right in front of her was Redford, his back looking extraordinarily broad in black leather. She wasn’t sure if she was intimidated or aroused. She checked in with her nether regions and discovered that she was both. Righto, then.
As if he’d heard her thoughts, Red’s long, strong fingers wrapped around her calf and she almost fainted. He squeezed and something inside her clenched. Okay, not “something”: her pussy. Good Lord. Then she realized abruptly that he was trying to tell her something. Right, yes, she was paying attention. She was a Very Good Chloe and she was taking this Extremely Seriously.
Gosh, his hands were big.
“Right there,” he shouted, and squeezed her calf, and let go. Boo. But at least she understood what he meant: Keep your feet where they are, right on those convenient little rest things I mentioned. As if she’d forget. She’d be following his disgracefully minimal instructions to the letter, thank you very much.
Then he reached back, caught one of her hands, and pulled. Next message, presumably: Hold on to me. He didn’t need to remind her of that, either; she’d watched enough teen romance films to know how one behaved on the back of a hot guy’s motorbike. She committed fully, shuffling closer to wrap her arms around his waist, lacing her fingers over his taut abs. She’d seen those abs naked. He wouldn’t be giving her a ride if he knew that, now would he?
Guilt whirled in her stomach, making her feel slightly nauseous and extremely evil. It was wrong of her, to let him treat her so nicely when she knew he had reason to despise her—actual reason, rather than misunderstandings and awkwardness. She should confess. She had to. It was the right thing to do.
“Ready?” he shouted.
Not in the slightest. “Ready.”
The engine g
rowled. The world began to move. She reflected that her god-awful guilt had been a blessing in disguise because it had distracted her from reasonable concerns about her impending doom. Her stomach lurched even though she knew they were only going five miles per hour, because that was the car park’s speed limit and Red was a very good and rule-abiding superintendent. Under her breath, beneath a helmet that was suddenly far too small, dark, and hot, she murmured, “It’s only five miles per hour. It’s only five miles per hour. It’s only—”
They turned out of the car park and the bike shot forward like a bullet.
“Good Lord,” she shrieked at the top of her voice. She hadn’t thought she could get any closer to Red, but she was now in danger of crawling into his skin. Her grip on his waist had become more of an “iron bar” situation. He probably felt like he’d been strapped into an electric chair on death row. She felt like she’d been strapped into an electric chair on death row, because anything that made her unprotected human body move as quickly as this was clearly a death sentence, and she couldn’t exactly escape by throwing herself off, now could she?
Out of nowhere, she felt Red’s glove-covered hand on hers. He squeezed, once, and she remembered that he was driving, actively controlling the beast beneath her. They weren’t just flying through the world willy-nilly on a murder machine. An odd sort of calm moved through her and she remembered what he’d said earlier. If I die, I die.
If she died, she’d be doing so on the back of an intensely sexy superintendent’s motorbike. Not a bad way to go, all things considered.
The blurry world grew even blurrier as their speed increased. She felt like data lost in the stream. Cars and buildings whipped by, as if the two of them were moving through time and dimensions rather than just space. It reminded her of the way she’d been years and years ago, running through crisp air as if she were flying, the thought of pain and life-changing fatigue never even crossing her mind.
The thrumming heat of the engine beneath her began to feel like a comfort, and then, all at once, like a tease. So did the body in front of her, though he wasn’t doing a damned thing to make her feel that way. It was past time to accept that Redford Morgan made her as hot and bothered as Enrique Iglesias in the “Hero” music video, with considerably less effort. That was why she felt so odd and unsettled around him: because he shoved her into motion the way he had this motorbike, as if he had the key to her motor. Being around him without melting was another bite-sized step of bravery, just like every item on her Get a Life list.
Maybe he could help her come alive. Maybe he could help her with the rest of her list.
She bit her lip and her teeth felt too sharp for her mouth, as if she’d turned into a predator. She couldn’t see a damned thing without her glasses but suddenly it didn’t matter; she had wild eyes, that was all, wild just like the rest of her. Her skin was electrically charged, so she could do whatever she wanted—including make another deal with the boldest man she knew. There was safety in transactional relationships, after all. If he refused to help her, or if he tried and got tired and gave her up as a lost cause, it wouldn’t rip her heart out like every other exhausted abandonment had.
It would just be the end of a deal.
But then she remembered that, when this ride ended, she’d have to confess what she’d done. That she’d invaded his privacy, that she’d practically stalked him. She highly doubted any deals would be forthcoming after that.
Would they?
* * *
Pippa had ridden with him once.
She hadn’t liked it, which was fine. Red knew perfectly well that certain thrills weren’t for everyone. The fact that his girlfriend had no tattoos hadn’t bothered him—why would it?—so the fact that she’d hated the bike hadn’t bothered him, either. He still remembered the way she’d stumbled off it that first time, yanking off her helmet so her glossy hair spilled out like a waterfall. He always remembered images like that.
She’d spat, “Never again, Red!” and when he’d laughed, she’d lost her temper and called him an imbecile with dog-shit sensibilities. For some reason, at the time, he’d thought that was a fight with his feisty girlfriend rather than an insult that would gnaw away at something vital in him. Maybe that was his problem in a nutshell: he’d seen cruelty like that as a challenge. And he’d felt rewarded when she wanted him, grateful when she stood at his side with all her poise and polish and easily recognized personhood in galleries where he felt barely human.
So, when she’d posed for Instagram photos on his bike, the one she hated so much, he hadn’t let himself think it was odd. He’d watched her post the pictures with captions implying she was some badass biker chick, and then he’d locked his bike up and gotten in her chauffeur-driven car, just the way she liked it. Everything was for show. He’d been an accessory in more ways than one.
He had no idea why he’d taken Chloe out today. Why he’d agreed to her deal when he knew damn well he could pay for the consultation with actual cash. This was supposed to be his personal pleasure, now, never to be used again. Maybe he was falling back into bad habits, seeing cruelty as a challenge. But everything in him rejected the idea that Chloe could ever really be cruel. And besides, he didn’t see her as a challenge; he saw her as an enjoyable pain in the arse. She made him irritable, yeah, but worse, she made him . . . curious. Oddly energized in a way he’d been craving, a way that felt so simply good.
And the way she felt sitting behind him right now? That made him satisfied.
Her thighs squeezed him as she screamed, which he liked more than he should. The screaming because it was so wild, so unexpected, and so full of glittering excitement. The squeezing because she was so soft and so hot, plastered against him like they were the only two people on earth. As if his physical fascination with her needed any more fuel. He’d only meant to run around the block real quick, but he was worried that if he stopped now, he might do something awful, like kiss the fuck out of Chloe Brown. And Christ, wouldn’t that be the end of the world?
It would, he told himself. It really fucking would.
He spent the next ten minutes concentrating harder on the road than he had since his very first ride, forcing himself to calm down. By the time they pulled into the same car park where this fiasco had begun, his body was mostly under control. There was just the secret, burning core of him, smoldering for her. Good thing she’d never see it. He could almost pretend it wasn’t there.
He cut the engine, toed the stand, dragged his helmet off, and sucked down some much-needed air. Behind him, he felt her fidgeting like a little kid. He held out his hand in silence, and she gave him her helmet and slipped off the bike. He stood. Wondered if, despite that one exhilarated scream, she’d actually hated it. Wondered why she’d wanted to go out in the first place. Opened his mouth to ask.
And was hit by an asteroid that felt suspiciously Chloe-shaped, slamming into his side and throwing its arms around him.
“That was amazing,” the Chloe-shaped asteroid murmured. Didn’t sound like Chloe; there wasn’t an ounce of sarcasm in those three words. No hesitance or snooty distance, either. Just all this intense feeling, like she was full of the same white-lightning thrill he’d always chased and savored, like touching her should give him an electric shock. And it kind of did—not because of the palpable excitement coming off her, but because of the way her breasts pressed against his arm. Asteroids weren’t supposed to have fantastic tits.
He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder and tried to seem disinterested. After dinner at Mrs. Conrad’s, Vik had made it clear that friendship with tenants was fine—but the last thing Red needed was for someone to wander out here and see him grabbing the prettiest woman in the building. Knowing his luck, they’d investigate further, find out about Smudge, and decide that Chloe was trading sexual favors for pet privileges. Tenant wars could be ruthless and she might end up with a scarlet letter painted on her front door, which would take him fucking forever to scrub off.
�
�Thank you,” she said.
“Uh,” he replied, smooth as fuck. “. . . No problem.” To add to his air of charm and intelligence, he patted her shoulder again. Brilliant. Bloody brilliant.
She pulled away abruptly, as if she’d just realized who she was hugging. Somehow, she managed to put a good three feet between them in about a second. The woman moved like a shot when she was embarrassed—and she was embarrassed, with her eyes focused on the tarmac and her lips pressed tight, awkwardness rolling off her in waves. He could tell now, as if he knew her, all of a sudden.
As if he’d put on those 3-D glasses at the cinema and was finally seeing every side of her.
She was fiddling self-consciously with her hair, smoothing down frizzy little flyaways that popped right back up again. Cute as fuck, this button of a woman. He tore his gaze away and opened the bike’s pannier, retrieving the case that usually held his shades, but currently held Chloe’s glasses. Her eyes were all soft and unfocused without them. For a moment he wondered if she took them off when she had sex, or if she wouldn’t want to give up even that ounce of control.
Then he told himself to stop being such a fucking weirdo and held out the specs. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” She took them, quick and wary, like a squirrel snatching nuts from his hand. “What are you smirking at?”
He couldn’t help himself. He said, just to piss her off, “You hugged me.”
She narrowed her eyes behind those familiar blue frames, set her jaw, crossed her arms. “And?” She could have silenced a thousand men with that one scary syllable. He wondered how many people had been shocked to realize that, despite the posh accent and the prissy outfits, she was a tough motherfucker all the way to her bones.
“I didn’t have you down as a hugger,” he drawled, locking up and strolling back toward the flats.
“I should hope you don’t have me down as anything,” she said primly, falling into step beside him. “I am, as I’ve just proved, an eminently unpredictable woman.”
He barely managed to choke back his laughter, turning it into a mangled sort of cough.
Get a Life, Chloe Brown Page 9
