“You pick locks?”
“I had an interesting childhood.”
Before I can process what that means, she’s beside me, producing something from her hair. Bobby pin. She works the lock with surprising skill, tongue caught between her lips, completely focused.
Christ, that’s attractive.
The lock clicks.
“Where’d you learn that?”
“Library. Books are very educational.” She tucks the pin back in her hair. “Also, my father was paranoid about government surveillance. He taught me that the only way to stay safe is to know how to break into everything that tries to keep you out.”
Every time I think I have her categorized, she reveals another layer.
We exit into the parking garage. Three levels underground, minimal lighting, concrete pillars creating blind spots every ten feet. Perfect for an ambush.
Our vehicle sits twenty yards away. Too exposed. Too obvious.
I scan the garage. Three vans that weren’t here before. Positioned to block exits. No visible occupants, but tinted windows hide plenty.
“Phoenix?”
“Probability is high.” I throw her words back at her, and she makes a soft sound that might be amusement.
The vans are positioned to create a kill box. Professional spacing, overlapping fields of fire. They expect us to go for our vehicle.
So we don’t.
A Ducati sits in the corner, half-hidden behind a concrete pillar. Older model, ’09 or ’10. No electronic ignition to hack, no GPS to track. Perfect. I calculate hot-wire time—five seconds if I’m quick, eight if the wiring’s corroded.
“See the motorcycle?”
She nods.
“That’s our ride.”
“Another motorcycle?”
“You’ve got this. Just hold on.”
The image flashes unbidden—her arms wrapped around me, body pressed tight against my back, trusting me to navigate Chicago traffic at speed. My cock twitches at the thought.
Professional. Stay professional.
But she derailed that possibility when she picked that lock. When she pressed back against me this morning. When she started looking at me with those golden eyes, like I’m something more than just her protection.
“On three, we run. Fast and quiet.”
“What about the vans?”
“Trust me.”
She nods. No hesitation. That trust hits harder than it should.
I count down on my fingers. Three. Two. One.
We run.
