“Shut the fuck up,” I say as I pull up the message.
Grace:
Big bad Officer Decker. All dressed up.
I scan the late-morning Saturday breakfast crowd taking up most of the outdoor seating, stopping on the table farthest from me, where Grace is sitting next to Triss, sipping what I imagine is an obscenely sweet coffee. We lock eyes, and she smirks as she glances back down at her phone and types.
Grace:
How’s your bike? Riding smooth?
Me:
She’s been a dream. Good old Barbara Ann never lets me down.
Grace:
Classic Barb. So reliable.
Me:
Like I said. The perfect woman.
Grace:
That’s what you look for in a woman? Reliability?
Me:
I like woman who can land a good punch and beat me to the finish line.
When I look back up at her, she’s smiling, her thumbs pounding down on her screen.
Grace:
What else?
Me:
Mean, hot, curves in all the right places.
Grace:
Can take a long, hard ride.
Me:
Exactly. Perfect woman.
Grace:
Wait. Are we still talking about your bike? Or do I have to fight someone?
Me:
Only person I want you fighting, is me. Naked.
Grace:
