Page 37

“No.”

“Then probably not.”

I step closer because I’m a bastard and because she doesn’t step back. “Shame. I’m real good at hands-on instruction.”

Her smile softens, but her eyes don’t. “You already gave your terms and conditions.”

“I could revise.”

“Men like you don’t revise. You reword.”

I laugh before I mean to, and there it is again, that strange irritation under my ribs. She doesn’t flirt like women usually flirt with me. She flirts like she already built a fence and enjoys watching me walk the perimeter looking for a weak board.

I could find one. I always find one. That thought should please me more than it does.

A motorcycle rolls slow down the road beyond the lot.

I look past her.

The rider wears a black helmet with a tinted visor, but that ain’t what catches me. It’s the patch shape half-hidden under a denim vest. Not full colors. Not bold. Just enough to say the man wants somebody to notice while pretending he ain’t asking for trouble.

A raven wing split by a pale line.

My body goes still.

Sweet notices my face before she turns.

“What?”

“Get behind me.”

The smile falls off her. “What?”

“Now.”

She doesn’t obey fast. That bothers me worse than the bike. She turns her head, sees the rider, and every drop of color slides out from under her sunshine.

Not scared like a civilian seeing a biker. Scared like a woman seeing a ghost that knows her address.

The motorcycle keeps rolling. Slow. Too slow. The rider’s visor turns toward us as he passes the lot. His head tilts just a little.

Then he keeps going.

I memorize the bike. Matte black Dyna, busted left mirror, fork wraps, no plate.

Because of course the bastard has no plate.

Sweet’s hand tightens around the hem of her apron.

I look down at it, then back at her face. “You know him.”

“No.”

“Try again.”

“I said no.”

“You said it badly.”