Page 4 of Viper's Single Mom
Blade and Wraith burst through the door, saving her from responding.
"Blade, Wraith, this is Tara." Brief introductions, professional, though every instinct screamed to stake my claim. "Her ex is making threats. Lawyer from Milwaukee named Harrison Clarke. Find out everything about him."
"On it." Wraith already had his phone out. "Social media?"
"I deleted everything months ago. He used to track my posts."
"Smart," Blade approved, and she stood a little straighter.
"Later. I'm taking her home. Wraith, I want everything by tonight. Blade, put the word out. Anyone sees a suit sniffing around asking questions, I hear about it immediately."
I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door. "You coming?"
"I have my car?—"
"Leave it. You're riding with me."
Primitive, probably inappropriate given her situation, but I needed her on my bike. Needed her pressed against me, arms wrapped tight, trusting me to keep her safe.
"I don't have a helmet."
My mouth twitched. Safety first, even when her world was falling apart. "Got a spare."
Outside, the spare helmet from my saddlebag fit perfectly—the one I'd bought months ago, telling myself it was practical, lying that I hadn't imagined giving a pretty woman a ride.
"Ever ridden before?"
"No."
Fresh terror flickered across her face. Different terror. This I could work with.
"When we lean, you lean. Don't fight it. And hold on tight."
I mounted up and waited. She stood frozen in her pencil skirt and sensible shoes, clearly calculating logistics. Finally, she moved and climbed on behind me.
"Arms around me."
Her hands settled tentatively on my waist.
"Tara. I said hold on tight."
The engine roared to life, vibration traveling through both of us. She pressed fully against my back, arms wrapped around my middle, soft curves molded to me. Ten minutes of sweet torture, her body warm against mine, her breath through my shirt. When we reached her driveway, letting her go took actual effort.
"This the place?"
She stared at the rental with obvious embarrassment. Peeling paint, broken rail, overgrown yard.
"It's temporary."
"It's shelter." I helped her dismount, hands spanning her waist. Soft, curvy, real. Nothing like the club girls who threw themselves at us.
I walked the perimeter—windows, doors, sight lines. The back door lock was pathetic. Tomorrow we'd fix that.
"Tomorrow, we install real security. Tonight, someone will be watching the house."
"That's not necessary?—"
"Which part of 'we protect what's ours' didn't you understand?"
