Page 67 of Jagger's Remorse

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She looks like what she is.

A killer.

My killer.

"Ready?" she asks.

"One thing first," I say.

I pull her aside, away from the others.

"What?" she asks, impatient.

"This," I say.

I kiss her.

Not soft.

Not careful.

A claiming kiss that says everything I can't.

That if this goes wrong, if we die tonight, at least we had this.

She kisses back just as fierce.

Like she understands.

Like maybe she feels it too.

"Still planning to kill me?" I ask against her mouth.

"Always. But maybe not today," she answers.

"Progress," I note.

"Necessity. Can't have someone else claiming my kill," she clarifies.

"Possessive," I observe.

"Maybe," she counters.

"I—" I start.

"Don't," she presses a finger to my lips. "Whatever you're about to say, save it. For after. When we're covered in blood and deciding who lives."

"That's romantic," I say dryly.

"That's us," she replies.

We mount up, engines roaring to life.

Five bikes thundering toward what might be our end.

But at least we're riding together.

At least if we burn, we burn bright.

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