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“I think I got it,” she said, her face full of concentration.
On a long sigh, Caine mounted his bike and gave her a nod when he was ready for her. It was another first for him, sharing his bike with the woman he loved. It should’ve been special. It should’ve rocked his fucking world. And it did, but only because it meant none of the things it should’ve meant.
“This okay?” she said, when she settled in tightly behind him. He didn’t exactly own a bike ideally equipped for a passenger’s comfort, so she was doing better than okay.
“Yes,” he said, pulling her arms around him more firmly and ignoring the fuck outta how good this should’ve felt. Did still feel. He slid on his sunglasses. “Just remember, Emma, no matter what, hold on tight.”
* * * *
This would’ve been super cool and exciting if being wrapped around Caine wasn’t pure torture. He didn’t want her touching him, she knew that. And she wasn’t sure what she thought of him either. All of this was just for expediency. And hopefully the Ravens would find something that would bring this whole thing to an end and put them both out of their misery.
Because those few minutes away from him as she’d dressed had made it easier to breathe, easier to think, easier to realize that Caine had apparently revisited that argument about whether they should be together. And no had won, judging by the way he’d tried so hard to push her away.
So, who was she kidding? She was already so head over heels that misery was in her future either way. Yay her.
“Okay, here we go. Nice and easy,” he said.
Emma clutched him and concentrated on keeping her body neutral and letting it lean how he wanted it to lean. So far that was no problem at all. True to his word, he turned into the alley gently, went slow, and pulled out into traffic on the street just as smooth as glass. He kept a good distance from the cars around him and braked with room to spare. At the third light, the bike came to a rougher stop.
He turned his head to call back to her. “Brakes are acting a little funny. Probably from a week of sitting out in that weather. I’ll take it slow. Just wanted to alert you that we might stop a little rough like that. I got it.”
“Okay,” she said, appreciating the communication.
When the light turned green, Emma clung tight. But Caine was right, the stops were jerky. Toward the edge of town, they rolled to a stop at a light, but mostly halted moving because he’d used his boots on the ground. Luckily, they’d been the only vehicle at this side of the intersection so it hadn’t been any problem.
A car rolled up next to them as Caine turned his head to talk over his left shoulder. “I think I’m gonna have to— Fuck, Em! Hold on!”
The Harley took off on a hard throttle, shooting them forward and forcing Emma to use every bit of the strength in her arms and thighs to stay in her seat.
She wanted to ask him what he’d seen and what was wrong, but there was only one explanation for why he was now barreling out Route 15, weaving in and out of cars, and running yellow lights.
Yellow lights that another vehicle ran, too, judging by the revving engine she heard.
She tried to peer over her shoulder to see what was coming up behind them, but Caine gripped her hands, hard. A silent command to be steady. A silent reminder that he was there. And they were in this together.
Caine ran another yellow light. Their speed climbed. The car pursued. How were they going to stop from going this fast when they’d been struggling at twenty-five and thirty miles an hour?
His hand held something up to her. In her panic, it took her eyes a moment to focus. But then she saw. It was his cell, and he’d dialed 9-1-1.
Oh, God, help us. She patted his stomach in acknowledgement and he pocketed the phone, and then he reached his hand between them, underneath his sweatshirt, and pulled his gun from its holster. The wind carried away Emma’s cry.
Suddenly, he was gripping her wrist hard, and it made her grip him harder, too. Maybe that’s what he intended, because the next thing Emma knew, Caine pulled a fast right-hand turn that tilted them terrifyingly low to the ground. With his left hand, he fired past her. One, two, three shots.
Squealing tires were the only thing Emma knew for sure, other than that the bike blessedly returned upright again—and was still going really, really fucking fast. Away from Route 15, the road quickly turned more residential, then more rural, and he allowed them to coast so that the bike lost speed naturally. As they slowed, her heart finally slipped down from her throat, where it’d been attempting an escape from her body.
