Her eyes are glassy in the light of the moon. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to fuck me.”
I smirk. “You first.”
A loud squeak sounds in the distance. Metal on metal. The screech of hinges.
I snap up straight, focus fixed in the direction of the gate.
Gracie lets out a huff. “I wasn’t looking at you like?—”
I press my palm to her mouth and silence her. “Shh. Hear that?”
She freezes, listening, her eyes widening slightly.
We’re not alone anymore.
I release her. “Time to go.”
“My bike.”
“Forget the bike.”
“I can’t,” she whisper-shouts. “Or are you forgetting what’s inside?”
Footsteps. Boots on gravel. Low voices. The beep of a radio. Fuck.
“I’ll try again tomorrow. It’s not going anywhere.” I grab her by the arm and give it a tug. “We’re leaving.”
She wiggles out of my grasp. “No. Give me my keys.”
There’s a shake in her tone. Makes me think that whatever shady shit she’s pulling has gotten her into some trouble.
The voices get closer. I recognize them. Fuck.Fuuuuuuck.
“Linc, please,” she begs. This time she’s the one grasping my arm.
There isn’t time. Neither of us can get caught here. But my instincts are screaming at me, telling me this bike iswhywe suddenly have visitors.
I can’t leave that shit hidden in there or Grace is looking at real prison time.
I clutch her again, directing her to the nearest truck and forcing her down. “Hide.”
Silently, she rolls under the vehicle, disappearing from sight.
Yanking her key from my pocket, I rush to the rear of the bike. Just as I’ve located the keyhole that’ll unlock the seat, there’s a laugh. The glow of flashlights. The muffled conversation is getting clearer. I jam in the key, twist, and tug the rear seat off. With my flashlight, I search the inside, immediately finding a small pouch. The cash, I assume. I snatch it up and shove it into the front of my jeans. More voices. They’re just around the corner.
I kill my flashlight and run through a list of plausible explanations.Just out for an evening stroll in the locked-up police impound lot where I come all the time to do things that are definitely not illegal.
Silently cursing myself, I yank up the rider seat. There it is. Sitting on top of the battery. I pull a cocaine-brick-sized black pouch out of the hollow and slap both seats back on.
“This way,” a deep voice says.
With a final press on both seats, I lunge to the ground and roll under the truck.
Just as feet appear around the corner, I move onto my side, giving our visitors my back, and twist into the shadow of the truck we’ve taken refuge under. The move puts me nose to nose with Grace. Her dark eyes are level with mine, that little smirk still tilting up at the edges of her mouth. She shifts closer, her hand sliding to my waist, her fingers finding skin.
