Outside, drizzle smears the neon.It paints the pavement in bruised colors—fitting for the mess we’re walking into.She starts toward a Harley parked in the corner, matte black, mean stance, and I shake my head.
"You ride with me," I say.“I’ll have someone bring your bike to you.”
Her eyes flick to the Harley, then back to me.A beat of hesitation—barely there, but I catch it.She knows we're being watched.Knows defiance right now would blow the cover she just sold.
Her jaw tightens."My gear is in the saddlebag.I’ll get it."
Good.She doesn't argue, and she understands that the cartel doesn't care about boundaries.
She returns with her pack and swings onto the back of my bike like it's a necessary evil.
"Nice bike," she says, eyeing my Ducati."Did it come with a mirror so you can watch yourself ride?"
The corner of my lip twitches.So, Nolan sent me a livewire."Came with a backseat.Didn't expect anyone worth looking at."
The answer is instant.Natural."You seem to have forgotten flattery doesn’t work on me."
She’s quick, I’ll give her that—picks up a throwaway line and turns it into history we never had.If she can keep it up, we might make it to Monday.
“Didn’t forget.I know you like actions, not compliments,” I say.
I swing my leg over the Ducati and hand her the spare helmet.She takes it without a word—hands light, body angled away, every line of her saying don't read into this.
The engine growls to life.Rain starts to fall, soft at first, then heavier, drumming against the tank.She settles in behind me, careful not to touch more than necessary.
The scent of leather and rain clings to her, threaded with a soft coconut fragrance that would be more at home on the beach than the back of my bike.
Great.My new “partner” even smells like trouble.
Perfect trouble—if Nolan’s right.
Fatal trouble if he’s not.
Two
Adena
The ride through the Quarter is sheer torture.
Jagger is annoyingly competent.Controlled aggression, nothing wasted.He leans into turns with precision, uses his body weight to stabilize us on the slick streets, and anticipates traffic as if he's reading minds.
I keep my grip light on his waist—no way I’m clinging to him like dead weight.I move with the bike because I know how to ride, not because I trust him.
Rain hammers the streets, turning the French Quarter into a wet blur of wrought iron and flickering gas lamps.
We pull up to a narrow building on Dauphine—three stories, crumbling brick, iron balcony sagging under the weight of too many years.
Jagger kills the engine and hops off like he expects gratitude.I rip the helmet off and follow him upstairs.
The apartment sits on the second floor, the door a peeling shade of green that maybe passed for charming back before color television.Jagger unlocks it and strolls in without so much as a “Welcome home, Tiger.”
I follow and take in the hardwood floors—scuffed, but at least not sticky.A couch sagging so hard in the middle it looks like it's given up on life completely.Kitchenette to the left with chipped tile, an oven that should probably be in a museum, and a coffeemaker old enough to have seniority over both of us.
One window faces the street.Curtains drawn.A card table and two mismatched chairs sit like they’re on an awkward first date.No photos.No décor.No personality.
Just a couple of boxes, my gear, and the overwhelming feeling that Jagger picked this place using three criteria: cheap, forgettable, and availableimmediately.
"Cozy," I say flatly."Really rolled out the red carpet."
