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Barely. But some.
I look up in time to catch Peach pulling my bike into the lot and gunning straight for me as I slide my shades onto my nose.
“You’re late,” I growl as he kicks the stand down without killing the engine and dismounts the powerful machine. He pulls the helmet from his head, shakes out his orange hair, and tosses the thing to me.
“Didn’t give me much time, Clooney.” The grin plastered to his face has me snapping my teeth at him before planting the helmet on my head and flipping him off.
I flip up the visor, raise a second middle finger to my laughing bodyguard, and straddle my bike. “Fuck you.”
“The trifecta!” He chuckles, throwing up his hands and palming his face with both of them. “The height of my day has been reached.”
Growling into the helmet, I slam the visor, rev the beast between my legs and burn rubber out of the lot without another glance at the asshole with orange hair.
The wind whips through my shirt, slicing through the thin jeans on my thighs, and washes away everything about the last hour of my life.
Everything except for the woodsy scent of her dark hair, and the image of those deep red lips wrapped around my cock.
Fuck.
My pulse kicks up when the light in front of me turns red and I’m forced to slow or run it. Cars line the street, both parked and waiting to get closer to the stadium where the show is starting soon. Buildings wait beyond that, with enough concrete to block out some of the sun, and bodies mill about between the two.
There’s too much traffic. Too many people wearing fishnets that walk the same street that Cedar is about to walk, heading to the same event.
So much black hair, dark lips, and boots covering long legs to their knees.
Just like her.
Just. Like. Her.
My helmet feels too small on my head as I roll to a stop at the light, constrictive and claustrophobic around my skull enough that I grab at the piece that covers my mouth and tug left and right in hopes of loosening the thing. When that does nothing but increase my heart rate even more, exaggerating that trapped feeling, I yank the thing off my head and haul in a lung full of stale air.
Growling, I jerk the handlebars until I’m weaving between the cars that are practically parked on the street and maneuver next to the nearest sidewalk corner with a crowd of people waiting to cross. Feet to the pavement to keep the bike from tumbling to the asphalt, I hold up the helmet in offering.
“Who’s got a marker?” I bark into the crowd, earning myself some odd glances and questionable looks before realization pulls up grins, and a Sharpie is tossed from the middle of the mass of starstruck people staring at me. I scribble my signature on the helmet as cameras and questions are aimed in my direction, the sun beating down and threatening a heat stroke if I don’t start moving. “Who gave the marker?”
When the group separates instead of each claiming it as theirs, a young girl not much older than the two that found me at the café with purple streaks in her hair and an As Above tee hanging from her shoulders, steps up. I hand over the helmet with the Sharpie tossed inside to her without a word. I throw a look at those around her that admire her new possession like desperate hawks that then ease back and fist the throttle.
Hands back in control of the bike, I give it enough gas to move away from the curb and around a line of cars and hammer it when I get a clear line between the vehicles.
The freedom of the air stinging my skin eases the tension in my chest, my shoulders coming down from my jaw.
A jaw that tics with each mile, each hour, I put between me and the venue where Cedar plans to wear that fucking outfit that looked painted on and sexy as sin. The one with the snakes over her tits and not much else. Where others get to see her and not a single person that gives a fuck about her safety will be there.
“Goddamnit.”
My grip tightens on the throttle for a different reason as the sun begins its descent into the afternoon, my head spinning off the rails of my mind with questions that I can’t answer and a whole lot more ofwhat the fuckrolling around in my thoughts.
I try to ignore the way her haunted ocean blue eyes filter into my subconscious and shake my head when the next flash is the way she jumped in the hallway, in the room, in the elevator.
Some people are just jumpy, stupid.
Except for Cedar. She’s not some people.
Because not many would swing a bat at my head like she did when she felt threatened.
Growling, I slow the bike enough to yank myself into a turn without dumping it and push the throttle along the back roads in the direction that will bring me right back to the venue I was driving away from.
No one makes my dick harder than it’s ever been like Cedar does.
