Page 166 of Good Boys Don’t Bite

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

Ronan stepped closer. His hand briefly touched the back of Elliot's neck. Public. Brotherly. Anyone watching would see nothing. Elliot knew better.

“I told you,” he said.

Ronan's thumb pressed once against his skin.

“I know.”

Elliot looked toward the police cruiser parked across Hawthorne Quad. Detective Vance wasn't inside. Probably. Still. He stepped away first.

“Let's go home.”

Ronan handed him the spare helmet. Elliot took it. As he climbed behind Ronan, something vibrated in his pocket. A message. Unknown number. Elliot checked while Ronan started the motorcycle. One photograph. Dylan Price leaving his apartment. Timestamp from twenty minutes earlier. No text. No explanation. Elliot stared. Another message arrived.

UNKNOWN: You aren't the only one watching.

Cold moved through him. Real. Immediate. For the first time since Mason Kerr died, Elliot felt something dangerously close to fear. Ronan looked over his shoulder.

“You getting on?”

Elliot locked the phone.

“Yeah.”

He climbed behind him. His arms closed around Ronan's waist. Tighter than necessary. Ronan glanced down at Elliot's hands.

“You okay?”

Elliot looked back toward Bellweather University. Students. Windows. Cars. A thousand possible eyes.

“Fine.”

The word came automatically. This time, Elliot knew it was a lie.

Chapter Fourteen — Someone Is Watching

RONAN

MONDAY · 3:04 P.M.

Elliot held him tighter the entire ride home. Ronan noticed because Elliot never held him like that on the motorcycle. Usually his grip was loose enough to be irritating, one arm around Ronan's waist and sometimes both if Ronan accelerated hard enough, his body close because physics required it rather than because Elliot wanted it. He liked pretending he wasn't afraid of anything. Speed included. Today both arms locked around Ronan before they'd even left Bellweather. They stayed there at the first light, through downtown, across the bridge, and all the way up the long residential road leading toward their parents' property. Ronan didn't ask. Not yet. He'd seen Elliot look at his phone. He'd seen his face change. Then Elliot had said he was fine.

That word had become meaningless. By the time Ronan pulled beneath the carriage-house awning, irritation had replaced concern. He killed the engine, and Elliot released him immediately. Too immediately. Ronan removed his helmet. “What was on your phone?” Elliot paused while unclipping his. “What?”

“At Bellweather.”

“Nothing.”

Ronan laughed. There it fucking was. Elliot climbed off the motorcycle. “What's funny?”

“You.”

“Glad I'm entertaining.”