Page 5 of Tangled in Red

Holy. Crap. “I wasn’t… I mean…” Brett looked at his sneakers, the countdown to critical combustion commencing.

“Thought you said you enjoyed learning new things?”

The words were soft, almost gentle, completely at odds with the man’s intimidating appearance. His expression held no mockery when Brett looked at him, just genuine curiosity mixed with something that might have been hope.

Brett’s resolve weakened. “That’s playing dirty.”

“Is it working?” Diablo patted the seat behind him. “I promise she won’t bite.”

As Brett edged closer, he could feel the heat rising up his neck like a thermometer on a summer day. Seriously, he really needed to get a grip on this blushing fiasco around Diablo. If this kept up, the guy might start suspecting Brett’s dad was half nuclear reactor.

But he wanted to spend more time with Diablo. Even if that meant risking life and limb?

“You’re safe with me, cariño.” There was something about the way his voice curled around the words, like that promise extended beyond a bike ride.

Blowing out a deep breath, Brett climbed on but was unsure where to put his hands. This was his first time touching Diablo, and he wanted to touch every inch of the guy’s massive body.

“Right here, pajarito.” Strong fingers guided Brett’s arms around Diablo’s waist, giving a gentle squeeze before letting go. A dull ache shot through his shoulder from extending his arms, but Brett was more than willing to ignore it if it meant holding Diablo.

“What does pajarito mean?”

A soft laugh, low and sinful, vibrated through the space between them. But instead of answering Brett, Diablo started the motorcycle, its engine growling powerfully underneath them.

“Hold on tight, pajarito,” Diablo warned before pulling out of the parking lot and merging with traffic.

A laugh escaped Brett as the wind rushed past him. He pressed his face into the solid wall of Diablo’s back, nose buried between shoulder blades that smelled like leather and something darker—motor oil maybe, or just pure man. The roar of the engine vibrated through his entire body as they weaved through traffic.

For once, fear didn’t cling to his bones. The nagging thoughts of Frank waiting at home faded beneath the late-afternoon sun.

Diablo’s thumb stroked across Brett’s knuckles at a stoplight, a casual reassurance that sent electricity racing up his arms despite the pain in his shoulder. “How we doing back there?”

“Alive,” Brett teased. “I think I’ve found my new addiction!”

He’d seen plenty of motorcycles on the street—none that looked as badass as Diablo’s—but Brett had never given them much thought, aside from how dangerous they were. But… oh god, the feeling of freedom, of his arms around Diablo’s waist, fingers pressed against the man’s rock-hard stomach, was a high he never wanted to come down from.

“How fast are we going?” he shouted over the rumble of the engine as they waited for the light to turn green.

“Not fast enough to justify how hard you’re holding on.” Amusement colored Diablo’s voice. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“It’s not from the speed,” Brett murmured, knowing the guy couldn’t hear him. “I wish I could feel this safe all the time.”

The light changed, and they surged forward, his body instinctively pressing closer.

After fifteen minutes of turns and straightaways, they pulled into a paved lot beside a small wooden structure. A hand-painted sign swung from gleaming chains above a large order window. “Smack Yo Mama.”

Brett snickered. He’d passed this place plenty of times but had never stopped to eat. “I hope that’s not literal.”

Diablo tensed under his arms. Had he said something wrong?

“Best chicken in three counties,” Diablo declared. The engine cut off, leaving Brett’s ears ringing in the sudden quiet.

The dodged question hadn’t gone unnoticed, making him wonder about Diablo’s relationship with his mother. Brett didn’t have one with his own parents. They’d disowned him after he’d come out to them.

Reluctantly, he unwound his arms from Diablo’s waist, fingers tingling as blood returned to them. His legs felt wobbly as he climbed off, like his bones had temporarily forgotten their purpose.

“You good?” Diablo dismounted like a warrior swinging off of his trusty stead, sword in hand, muscles rippling.

Brett quickly banished the image before he ended up with a visible hard-on. The fantasy rudely returned when Diablo smiled softly at him, his gaze flicking up.

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