Slade snatched the phone up, eyes narrowing. “You had this the whole time?”
Ash smiled without warmth. “You still don’t trust me. Even when I give you something real.” His gaze lingered on the man, rumpled, hard, still burning from what could’ve been.Why won’t you believe in me, Slade? Just a little. Why won’t you?“Guess I should’ve known better.”
Slade stared at him but said nothing.
Ash grabbed his phone and turned away. He picked up his hoodie and jacket, movements sharp now, too fast to be casual. “We’re done here,” he muttered, already stepping from the booth.
Behind him, he heard the frantic rustle—Slade standing too fast, fumbling with shirt buttons, scrambling to find his tie where it had fallen to the floor, the soft curse when he couldn’t get his suit jacket on straight. It would’ve been funny if it didn’t sting. “Wait—Ash, goddammit—wait!”
But Ash didn’t pause. One glance was all it took for Nino to emerge from the dark like a summoned demon. And the moment Slade stepped out of the VIP lounge, Nino blocked his path.
“Time’s up, Detective,” Ash said, not looking back.
He left the cop and the bouncer wrangling behind him, vanishing into the corridor, a shadow swallowed by red light and smoke. His skin was still flushed from the weight of Slade’s body, from his accusations, from the heat of that gaze. He didn’t know if he wanted to curse him or drag the bastard into the dark and fuck the fight out of him until neither of them could breathe.
Probably both.
Chapter Twenty-Four
(12:49 a.m.)
The nightclub spat him out like a curse. Rick stumbled out of the VIP lounge, staggering down the steps like he’d been struck, the stink of sweat and smoke still clinging to his nostrils. His breath came ragged, his body taut with need and frustration clawing from the inside. Nino’s shoulder brushed against his as the bouncer herded him out with a look that saidDon’t make me drag you, but Rick hardly registered it. He needed to get out, fast. He paused by the wardrobe check only long enough to snatch his trench coat from the stunned girl behind the counter, one arm halfway into a sleeve before he dashed past the double doors and burst into the street.
Cold night air slapped him awake, sharp and humid, a harsh contrast to the perfumed haze of the club. Behind him, the muffled wail of piano followed him out into the dark, moody, pitying, like it knew exactly how far he’d fallen. He stood on the curb blinking, heart pounding too loud, too fast, still half hard and reeling. Ash was gone. Walked out on him without a backward glance.
Rick swore under his breath and turned in place, scanning the street smeared in neon and steam. He wasn’t ready to give up, not yet, not if he could help it. He needed to find Ash, to catch up with him, and… what? What exactly could he do to make things better, to make the outcome any different? But his body was moving on its own, reflexes taking over, despite what logic and reason shouted.
There—he caught the flare of chrome under a streetlamp. A low growl of an engine slicing through the night. A blur of black tore past the corner, trailing the reek of gasoline and fury.
“Shit!”
Rick ran, shoes splashing in puddles, breath catching as he darted between parked cars and bolted across the road, nearly getting clipped by a bus. Horns blared. He didn’t slow. His Eldorado sat crouched on the far side, a panther waiting to pounce, and he flung himself toward it, yanking the door open and sliding behind the wheel—pure instinct, no grace.
The key turned. The engine roared.
Ash wasn’t just walking away. He was burning rubber, already disappearing down the block, a comet in leather swallowed by Duskhaven’s sleepless dark.
Rick slammed the gear into drive and peeled off after him, tires shrieking against the wet concrete, his pulse a war drum in his ears, thudding not only from duty. Some deeper impulse was pulling him now. Something primal. Something personal.
He tailed the bike from a careful distance, letting the swell of traffic serve as camouflage. Ash rode hard, reckless, tearing across the city with a ferocity that left Rick pushing to keep up. Chrome flashed. Leather gleamed. The Harley weaved between taxis and cars with predatory ease, its taillight a snarling red eye that blinked between shadows. Rick stayed back far enough not to spook him, keeping his gaze locked on that shrinking flame ahead.
Then he saw it.
A second vehicle. Low-slung. Black as wet tar. Tinted windows like blindfolds. It glided from a side alley with eerie precision, falling in behind Ash without speeding or swerving, too smooth to be an accident. A predator on cruise control.
Rick’s gut clenched. He slid into the adjacent lane and punched the gas, ignoring the traffic signal that bled red acrosshis windshield. A sharp right turn skimmed his bumper past a minivan. He didn’t blink. This wasn’t about pride anymore. Not about some bruised ego and a skipped-out witness. This stank. Deliberate. Wrong.
Ash—moody, maddening, impossible Ash—was riding straight into a trap.
Rick grabbed the radio mic clipped to his dashboard. “Slade to Dispatch. Come in.”
A crackle of static. Then a voice.“Dispatch. Go ahead, Sergeant.”
“I’m tailing a witness under possible threat. Southbound through Duskhaven, heading past Aldridge and 14th. Suspect vehicle is a black sedan—late model, unmarked, tinted windows. I’ve got partial plates: K9Z—Lima—Eight-Seven.”
“Copy. Running it now. Stand by.”
He adjusted his position again, threading past a pocket of traffic, keeping both vehicles in view. Ash was still oblivious. The bike roared past a yellow light without slowing. The black car followed, never missing a beat.
