“Really?”
“I Googled,” he said, shrugging on a black biker jacket and zipping it up. “There were photos from your book launch.” He indicated she should change, and turned away, rummaging in the bag. She stared at his back. A man who could tell a woman’s size by looking at her had to be a man who’d been in a relationship—and a man who’d paid attention to that relationship. Holt’s wife had gone missing while on assignment for the CIA and was never found, leaving him in emotional limbo. That was all Nika’s idea. Was it true?
“I’m not hearing any dressing going on there,” he called. “We need to hurry, before they figure out where we’ve gone.”
She tucked the jeans under her arm and unzipped her capris. “So you did plan this.”
“An internet search and a stop at Walmart hardly constitute planning. I had to act fast. This is all new to me, but the Agency and the Feds have known about you a little while. I wasn’t sure how much time we had.”
“The FBI now?Andthe CIA?”
“A joint task force, no less. And those guys don’t like working together unless they absolutely have to. Nice being special, isn’t it?”
“Holy shit.” Alice yanked the jeans up and zipped them, then worked her feet back into her now-inappropriately high boots. Not that they’d been all that appropriate for school either, but she’d found them at the back of her closet a few weeks back and thought, “Why the hell not?” Life was too short for sensible shoes. They were Nika’s hand-me-downs and a little pinchy but it was easier to exert your authority over pranking seniors when you weren’t craning your neck to look up at them. She walked up alongside Carter, shoving her capris into her purse. He lifted a smaller biker jacket from the other saddlebag and ripped off a price tag. “How did you even find out about the book? It hasn’t exactly stormed the literary world.”
“I still have contacts. I got a heads-up yesterday.” He shoved her purse into the saddlebag and handed her the jacket. “Fortunately, the FBI search warrant was held up by a backlog in the courts, so they decided to put you under surveillance in the meantime.”
“They what? I haven’t noticed anyone watching me!”
“Which is kinda the point of surveillance.”
“That must have been a dull assignment.” She pushed her arms into the jacket, the new leather squeaking. What had shedone in the last few days—bought groceries, sat in on a talk on pest control at the Montrose library, shopped for bridesmaid dresses, taken Kimberly to the oncologist? And why hadn’t they stopped a bunch of high school seniors from stealing her car—wasn’t car theft a federal offense? “If they’re watching me, won’t they see us going into my house?”
“I’m hoping they still think you’re at school. But we’ll scope that out before we go in.”
He held up a helmet with a mirrored visor and beckoned her closer. As he pushed it down over her hair—quite a feat—and adjusted and fastened the chin strap, she noted a spatter of indented scars in the center of his forehead, like flecks of beige paint against his tan. From the time he took shrapnel to his face as a SEAL in Afghanistan? She also noticed a wedding ring. This was like one of those dreams in which you were just conscious enough to have a fraction of control over things, but only fleetingly, before the crazy took over again.
He gave the helmet a wiggle, seemingly satisfied with the fit, the dead-serious look on his face doing inadvisable things to her stomach. He lowered the visor and everything darkened, as if this madcap movie had entered a black-and-white flashback.
As she turned, she felt a tug on her butt, followed by a snap. He’d pulled a label from her jeans pocket. “Not bad,” he said in a muffled voice, staring at her butt while he pulled down his own helmet. Heat rose up her chest.He’s talking about the fit of the jeans, not what they’re covering.He handed her a pair of black gloves, also with price tags attached, and pulled on a pair of his own. Then he slung a leg over the bike, raised the kickstand, settled onto the seat, and gestured to her to sit behind him.
“Uh,” she said, picking up the gloves, “what do I do here exactly?”
“With the gloves? They go on your hands.”
“With the bike. How do I ride on this thing?”
“You don’t. I’m riding it. You’re the passenger.”
“But how do I be a passenger?”
“You’ve never ridden?”
“Do horses and bicycles count?”
“The G-forces are a little different. Put your feet on these pegs and keep them there, even when we’re stopped at lights or wherever. I’ll hold both of us up. Most important thing is to lean the way I lean. Don’t just be a dead weight—we’re one entity, not two, okay? Like we’re dancing and you’re following—you gotta trust that I know what I’m doing and go with it.”
“Cool, but first, um, how do I get on without tipping the whole thing over?”
“Put your foot on the peg to hoist yourself over, just like on a horse. And I’ve got it—it’s not gonna tip.”
“O-kay.” She climbed on. Her balance wobbled and she grabbed his shoulders. “Uh, sorry.”
“No problem,” he said as she landed behind him with a graceless oomph.
There really was no other way to do this than slide up behind him. She hovered her gloved hands on each side of his waist. The smell of new leather blessedly masked the stink of the garbage around them.
“Don’t touch anything that’s hot,” he said.
