Page 55 of Trigger Happy Ending

Raine’s emerald-green eyes narrow. “Shouldn’t we lie low?”

“We’ll have helmets on, identity hidden. No rules against us riding out of the city.”

“Where to?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere.”

She pauses for a brief moment, before she grins and stands. “Somewhere sounds good.”

***

Raine’s a phenomenal rider, but I already knew that after racing her at the speedway. Crazy how that night feels like a lifetime ago. How long has it been? A month or so? I don’t even know, time becomes sort of meaningless when you’re on assignments like this. Days blend into weeks, weeks into months. On the open road, she matches my speed before pushing ahead, glancing back once to check I’m there, which of course I am.

If I’m honest, I’m riding behind for a reason. Her ass looks fucking magnificent clad in black leather. I can stare at her unashamedly, without her snapping at me. Her black hair whips across her back, wild and untamed. She’s got that silky hair, the kind that never seems to knot or frizz. Even when blowing in 70 mph wind. There’s Bluetooth in our helmets, a channel open if either of us wants to speak. But we don’t. She’s not a small talk type of woman—and I’m not fond of aimless conversation either—so we ride in comfortable silence, deep into the Harriman State Park, until a roadside diner flashes into view.

She signals me to pull in. My back aches; I could use a break. Besides, the chances of us being spotted out here are slim to none. The helmets come off first, then the jackets. Under hers, Raine’s wearing a skintight white tank that’s tucked neatly into leather pants. I glance away, then back again, because apparently, I have no self-control when it comes to her.

Inside, it’s quiet, not quite lunchtime. The lighting is dull, classic roadhouse atmosphere, a few neon Budweiser signs behind the bar, and a small television replaying a classic World Series game. Red Sox, I think it is. I order two beers and lean against the counter.

Raine makes her way over to the pool tables in the far corner and picks up a cue. She raises her eyebrows at me from afar. Raine-speak for you in?

I thank the bartender, collect the drinks, and walk over to Raine, handing her a beer. She takes a small sip before placing it on the shelf behind her.

“Wanna bet?” she asks, sliding the plate across the table.

“I’m rich as shit, I don’t need your money.”

“Likewise, you arrogant loser,” she snaps, lifting the plate off the table and hanging it up. “By the way, you still owe me five grand too. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that.”

Grinning, I chalk my cue. I let her win that night. Not that she would ever believe me, but it’s true. I did. “The debt was void once you shot me.”

She rolls her eyes, chuckling softly. It’s as if the memory shooting me in the ribs is a fond one. “Winner gets to ask one personal question. No lies.”

Fuck, I’d rather put up another five grand.

“Thought you didn’t want to get to know me?”

“People can change their minds, Soren.”

She breaks with a clean snap, scattering the balls. “Deal?”

“Yeah,” I reply, taking a sip of my beer. “Deal.”

The game’s over pretty fast. For someone who acts like she’s relaxing, she doesn’t half-ass anything. She’s competitive as hell, sinking the eight ball and beating me. Satisfied, she leans casually on her cue.

“My question,” she says. “What’s with the journal?”

“I write.”

“What, like Dear Diary—why am I such an asshole?”

“No, smart-ass.” I feel my demeanor relax as I speak the truth. “Observations. Poetry.”

Her brows lift in surprise. “Poetry?”

“Yeah,” I confirm, arranging the billiards into the plate for a second game. “What? Can’t I be cultured?”

“Can I read one?”