Page 54 of Diesel’s Desire

“You want the honest answer?”

“Always.”

She takes a breath, like she’s been building this speech the whole drive over. “I used to think the law was black and white. Right and wrong, clean lines, no room for anything in between. That’s why I became a cop in the first place. I wanted to be on the side that made things right.” Her voice catches slightly. “But Addison was in that basement for six days, Evan. Six days, and the system that was supposed to protect her did nothing. Worse than nothing. It protected the man who put her there.”

“And we didn’t.”

“You didn’t.” She swallows hard. “I hate what you do. I hate that guns you steal end up God knows where, hurting God knows who. I’m not going to pretend that doesn’t matter to me. But I also can’t pretend anymore that wearing a badge automatically puts you on the right side of anything. Not after what I watched happen with Pemberton. Not after watching Morris fold because he was scared of losing his pension.”

“So you’re saying you’re okay with what we do,” I murmur.

“I’m saying I can live with it if it means innocent people get saved when the system fails them.” She steps closer, close enough that I catch her familiar vanilla perfume. “I’m not asking you to change who you are. I’m asking if you’ll help me be who I want to be.”

I think I fell in love with her twice. Once at seventeen, when she looked at me like I was something worth having despite every reason not to. And now, standing in this cramped room off our kitchen, when she looks at me the exact same way, except this time she knows exactly what she’s asking for.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice rougher than I mean it to be. “Yeah, I’ll help you.”

The breath she releases sounds like relief.

I close the distance between us before either of us can say anything else, my hand finding her jaw, tilting her face up. She doesn’t pull away. She never pulls away anymore, not really, not when it counts.

I kiss her as we reach the doorway, one hand sliding into her hair, pulling her against me like I need her closer to believe she’s real. She melts into it, her fingers curling into my shirt, and I forget we left the door open.

Someone whoops from the main room. Then another voice joins in, a chorus of hollering and catcalls that makes Penny break the kiss with a startled laugh, her cheeks flushing.

“Get a room, Diesel!” Ace shouts from somewhere near the pool table.

“Oh my God,” Penny mutters into my shoulder, mortified.

“They’re just jealous,” I say, though I can feel my own neck heating.

“I can’t believe they saw that.”

“Come on.” I take her hand, threading my fingers through hers. “Let’s get out of here before they start taking bets on our wedding date.”

“They wouldn’t.”

“Riot’s already got a pool going on when I’m gonna propose again. Trust me, wedding bets are next.”

Her laugh follows us out the back door, past the smokers loitering by the fire pit who give us knowing looks but have the decency to keep their mouths shut. The barn sits a couple hundred yards off, past Bluebell’s pen, the old building we use for storage and overflow parts. It’s quiet out here, away from the noise and the eyes.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“Somewhere private. Since apparently privacy doesn’t exist inside that clubhouse.”

The barn door creaks when I push it open, dust motes floating in the shaft of afternoon light that cuts through the gap. It smells like hay and motor oil, an old wooden structure that’s stood longer than the clubhouse itself. I pull her inside and shut the door behind us, plunging us into cooler shadow.

“Romantic,” she says dryly, glancing at the stacked crates and the tarped motorcycle parts along one wall.

“Give me a minute. I’ll romance you.”

I press her back against the wall, my hands framing her face, and I stop trying to be clever with words. Instead, I just look at her, really look, taking in every detail I spent seventeen years trying to forget and failing.

“I never want to be without you again,” I tell her, voice low. “Not one more day. You understand that?”

“Evan—”

“I mean it. Every year you were gone, every year I told myself I was fine, I was lying. To you, to myself, to everybody.” My thumb traces her cheekbone. “I don’t care what badge you wear or don’t wear. I don’t care what happens with the club, with the law, with any of it. I just care that you’re here now.”