Page 54 of Some Like 'Em Burly
Must’ve been an ex boyfriend, from the way he was talking to her. Right? It’s always the ex.
“Hardly.” Jem fiddles with her backpack straps, yanking them tighter to her shoulders. “All I want to do is go home, take a hot shower, and change into my slobbiest PJs. No parties tonight, thank you.”
Well, that’s nice and simple from a security point of view. And I won’t lie—having Jem to myself for a few hours is a tempting thought, even if I’m strictly there as her bodyguard.
Seriously, was that guy her ex? Does she like guys like that? All neat and fussy and stuck up?
“Works for me,” I grit out, dragging my brain back on track. Doesn’t matter if they dated; it’s none of my damn business. “Got a car?”
“Nope.” Jem jerks her chin across the road, tiny silver raindrops already clinging to her bangs. “I’m even fancier than that. I take the bus.”
Oh, ho. Is that what she thinks? Digging my keys out of my back pocket, I jingle them in the night air between us.
“Not tonight, you don’t.”
My bike is where I left it, parked a few steps along from the market. Jem gasps when she sees it, even though I’m standing here in bike leathers with a helmet dangling from one hand, bearded and tattooed to fuck. Is it really such a surprise to see what I drive?
Still, it’s nice seeing her fuss over my ride, an excited flush creeping over her cheeks. And when she spins around and beams at me under the streetlight—that’srealnice. The best feeling I’ve had in a long time.
“Here.” I jam my own helmet on my head, then shrug off my backpack and wrestle out the spare I brought for just this scenario. It’s smaller than mine, mint green and kinda dorky. Jem practically hops with excitement when I thrust it toward her, trying to keep my hand steady and not shake. “Safety first. Put that on and do the strap up.”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
I climb on first, then her weight settles behind me on the bike, her arms wrapping around my waist. My heart stutters.
Focus.
“You know how to take the corners, sweetheart?”
Fuck. I shouldn’t call Jem that—not while she’s my client, anyway. But it’s out there now, and the word tasted so sweet on my tongue that I can’t persuade myself to take it back.
“Nope.” Jem sounds shy, but not annoyed about the pet name. That’s good.
“Just lean with me.” I adjust my grip on the handlebars, the leather of my jacket creaking as I shift my weight. “Don’t fight it, okay? I’ll keep you safe, I promise. Just trust me.”
“I do,” she says, so quiet I nearly miss it, and then I turn the key and the engine roars to life beneath us. It’s a rich, low purr, all restrained power and fine-tuned engineering that rumbles through my teeth and bones, and Jem sounds breathless as she tells me her address. Since I’m an asshole, I rev the engine once or twice just to feel her laugh against my back, then we pull away from the sidewalk.
Slow. Go slow.
The stars glitter high above and below, in the night sky and in the dark puddles in the gutter, everything blurring together as we drive past. It’s cold enough now that the wind bites at the sliver of exposed skin below my beard; it snakes up my jacket sleeves to chill my insides.
Take it easy. Easy.
There’s no way I’m risking Jem by driving recklessly. Not ever—and especially not on a night like this, when she’s new to the bike and the roads are slick with rain. It’d be a dick move anyways, but this isJem, and she said back there that she trusts me to keep her safe, so I take each corner like an octogenarian. We weave between potholes; we trundle over speed bumps with barely a jolt. Even then, there’s a hot puff of breath against my back each time, like she’s taken by surprise.
Fingers flexing, I grip the handlebars tighter. It’s for the best that I can’t touch her right now—it’s keeping me professional. Ifmy hands were free, I might reach a hand back and slide a palm along her thigh, feeling the heat beneath that denim; I might rub at the knobby bones of her knee with my thumb, testing to see if she shivers.
“Left here,” Jem shouts, her voice snatched away by the wind, and I grunt a response she can’t hear, then turn us onto a new, narrower street lined with half-dressed trees and beat-up cars.
We pull up outside her place, and the engine dies. The sudden silence rings in my ears. She lives here? Is this neighborhood safe? Again, that blond prick from earlier smirks in my mind’s eye, and a hot wave of repressed violence surges through my blood. How dare he scare my girl?
“Home sweet home,” Jem says weakly, wobbling as she climbs off the bike behind me.
Gritting my teeth, I follow.
* * *
Most of the folks who hire temporary bodyguards aren’t exactly hurting for money. They’re businessmen who pissed off the wrong shady partner, or small-time celebrities who shot to fame unexpectedly and got worried about pushy fans. They’re high-profile lawyers in the run-up to a big court case, or journalists who are pulling at a dangerous thread on the hunt for a story.
