Page 158 of Vicious Temptation

“Good answer.”

After another ten minutes of hugs, unsolicited advice, and last-minute pep talks, they finally head out. A short while later, I’m standing under a stream of hot water, washing away the gym sweat and some of the frustration I’ve been carrying for the past three days.

By the time I step out of the shower, my mood has improved marginally, which I’ll take as a win. I work some product through my hair, glance at the clock, and decide that whatever air-drying under a helmet does to it is tomorrow’s problem. If I’m lucky, I won’t look like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket by the time I get where I’m going. If I’m unlucky, Mamá will just have to love me anyway.

Thirty-Nine

remi

“Let me take you for a ride, baby.”

I don’t bother looking at the owner of the voice because I’m already running dangerously low on patience.

Traffic has been at a standstill for the past fifteen minutes. Normally, I’d split lanes to find a break in the congestion, but cars are packed bumper to bumper as far as I can see.

“Come on, pretty girl. I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

I tighten my grip on the handlebars and stare straight ahead. I’ve learned that engaging only encourages men like this, and I have enough on my mind without entertaining some random stranger who thinks yelling at women from his car window is a legitimate way to spend an afternoon.

The light ahead turns green, but nobody moves, and a chorus of useless horns erupts around me.

“That’s a beautiful bike.” He continues. “I’ve got a couple at home you can ride⁠—”

“Don’t,” I snap, cutting him off.

For a second, his brow creases, and I think the message got through, but then he laughs.

“Damn. Feisty. I love that.”

There are too many witnesses for me to do what I’d really like to do, so I roll my eyes and force myself to ignore him.

Traffic inches forward, and I ease off the clutch, hoping movement will finally end the conversation. Unfortunately, the black sedan beside me creeps forward too.

“What’s your name?”

I finally turn to look at him.

The man appears to be in his late fifties, wearing expensive sunglasses and a collared shirt. A wedding band catches the sunlight as he lifts his hand.

Naturally, the asshole is married.

“My name is Not Interested.”

His grin widens. “Well, Not Interested, I’m⁠—”

“Having a midlife crisis?”

His mouth falls open.

“Respectfully, fuck off.”

Before he can respond, traffic finally begins moving. I twist the throttle, slip through an opening, and leave him behind, but not before flashing him the middle finger over my shoulder for good measure.

I slow when brake lights stack up ahead and assume there’s been another accident or more roadwork. Then I catch sight of flashing lights as police cruisers block off the intersection, while yellow tape and barricades force traffic to detour around whatever is happening beyond them.

I barely pay attention until I spot a BearCat with Philadelphia SWAT painted across the side.

My stomach drops to my ass.