“We’re not married yet. I’m Miss Harlow.”
He smiles, displaying an odd curve to his lips as if he doesn’t know what to make of my comment. Neither do I. I don’t know what to make of it either, to be honest.
Embarrassed for the second time today, I spin on my heelsand stride from the luxurious store, literally feeling HJ’s suspicion dripping down my spine as he follows me to the awaiting black SUV.
His voice comes from behind me. “Need to talk about something, Fawn?”
“Nope,” I grumble, popping the p.
Jasmine and I strap the babies in and climb inside. Sometimes Jasmine’s self-absorbed personality is annoying, other times, it’s exactly what I need. Like right now, as the car smoothly joins the city traffic, she sits opposite me, completely clueless about my internal turmoil. It’s nice to be granted the space to fester, to fume, without Sir or HJ reading me like a billboard on The District Square.
I'm still sulkingabout Sir’s underwhelming response when I notice HJ’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, just before we switch lanes in a rather aggressive manoeuvre.
A car honks.
“I see him,” HJ says into the microphone on his collar, and changes lanes again.
My pulse quickens.
"What's wrong?" I whisper.
"Nothing to be concerned about," he says, but his head is moving as if his eyes are scanning methodically behind his sunglasses. "Just someone speeding.”
That's when Ihearit.
The rumbling of a motorcycle, not just any, but a cruiser. I would recognise that growling sound anywhere; it’s the same sound Max and I followed when we walked through a burning forest to meet my father and the Stockyard Bikers.
Then Iseehim—a biker in a shiny graphite-coloured helmet and leather jacket—speed past us.
"Is that—" I begin.
“He is not patched, Miss Harlow. It’s okay.”
“Who is that?” Jasmine asks.
I realise I’m on the edge of my seat and force myself back into the cushion. “No one.”Ugh,I don’t sound convincing at all.
A flash of movement catches my eye in the side mirror. Another motorcycle weaves through the cars behind us, gaining ground, filtering through the traffic with arrowed intent.
"HJ," I say, trying to keep my voice level and failing miserably. “There’s another one.”
The muscles in his neck tense as he checks the rearview mirror. “Yep. A motorcyclist. Not to worry, Miss Harlow.”
But I am worried.
The bike edges closer.
Are they tracking us? They’re matching our turns, maintaining a precise distance that's close enough to follow but not close enough to prove they’re a threat.
My babies… It hits me like a backhand to the cheek—my sons are always going to be targets. I knew this, of course, in a naïve way, simmering not boiling, not in a heart-thundering, race for survival sort of way.
"The twins…" I whisper, glancing at their sleeping forms in their car seats, so innocent, so clueless.
“Are perfectly safe,” HJ confirms. “We have fourCosa Nostravehicles surrounding us, and we’re all watching them. You’re safe.”
I twist in my seat, squinting out the rear window of our bulletproof black SUV, noting the two matching ones to my left and right. I watch as the motorbike takes a turn behind us andone of our cars follows it, both disappearing down a city street, the growling noise curdling into the distant city clamour.
I exhale with relief. “Fuck.”
