Page 8 of My Reckless Biker

"Sienna," I say before Diesel can answer for me.

"Pretty name. You know what you're getting into with this one, Sienna?"

"I'm figuring it out as I go."

Walt's mouth twitches. "That's probably the smart approach." He slides the beers closer. "Let me know if you need anything else."

Diesel picks up his beer and moves to a table near the window. One that has clear sightlines to the door and the rest of the bar.

Strategic positioning. Of course.

I follow and sit across from him, aware that we're visible now, that people are watching without being obvious about it.

He takes a drink and I do the same, the beer cold and bitter and something to do with my hands.

"How long do we stay?" I ask quietly.

"Long enough for people to see us together and talk about it. Long enough for word to spread that I've got someone with me, which doesn't happen often, so it'll spread fast." He leans back in his chair, casual, like this is just a normal evening. "An hour, maybe two. Depends on how fast the pictures start circulating."

"And we just sit here and make conversation?"

"That's generally what people do when they're out together, yeah."

"What do we talk about?"

"Anything you want." He takes another drink. "Just make it look real. Make it look like you want to be here with me instead of anywhere else."

I take another sip of beer and calculate what someone would talk about if this were real instead of performance. What questions someone would ask if they were actually getting to know this man instead of pretending to.

"How long have you been with Vigil?" I ask.

"Fourteen years. Joined when I was twenty-three, been here ever since."

"That's a long time. Do you ever think about leaving? Doing something else?"

His eyes sharpen on me, and I realize I've asked something he wasn't expecting. Something that cuts closer than safe small talk.

Good. Let him wonder if I'm reading him or just making conversation.

"No," he says. "I don't think about leaving."

"Why not? You're smart, you're capable, you could probably do anything you wanted if you left the club behind."

"Because the club isn't something I do. It's what I am." He sets his beer down and his hand moves across the table to cover mine where it's resting on the worn wood. His palm is warm and rough with calluses. "I don't have a life outside Vigil. I don't want one. This is it for me."

This is the second time he's touched me deliberately and it still feels like strategy instead of want. His thumb moves across my knuckles, slow and deliberate, and I catch movement in my peripheral vision. Someone at the bar pulling out their phone, angling it toward us.

"They're taking pictures," I say quietly.

"I know. Good. That's what we want." His thumb keeps moving across my knuckles, the motion surprisingly gentle for someone who's only touching me because he has to. "What about you? What do you want when this is over? When your father's not a threat anymore and you don't need Vigil's protection, what's the plan?"

"I don't know yet. I've spent so long planning how to get out that I haven't thought much about what comes after."

"You should. You need something to move toward, not just something to run from."

"Is that advice or observation?"

"Both." His eyes are steady on mine. "Running gets you out. But it doesn't give you a reason to stay out."