Page 11 of Painted Scars
He catches my arms, and this time I feel the warmth through the leather and waterproofed fabric of his gloves. “Eat. Your body needs fuel.”
“Technically, panic elevates blood sugar for a fight-or-flight response,” I counter, hoping he’ll argue or take off his helmet. Is it hot in that thing? Stuffy?
“You’re talking.” His tone is pleased. “That’s a good sign.”
The confidence in the way he says it tells me he’s done this before. Too smooth. Too steady. It sets off a quiet alarm in the back of my mind, even as the sound of his voice pulls me in.
“Thank you… my knight in shining armor.” Oops. My guard is down, and it slips out a little too flirtatious.
He scoff-laughs. “Hardly.”
“What’s with the helmet?” I angle toward him and bite into the cake.
“Do you want some water?” Classic deflection.
What are you hiding, mystery man?
“Please,” I reply.
I hate how I sway when he lets go, my body missing the anchor of his hands. Pain in my lungs retreats. I drag my damp hands down my clothes. Fog clings to my head, and I’m left confused about how to feel. Terror? Comfort? Do I need to call someone? File a report? Scream for help?
I turn slowly and deliberately, searching the glowing dark for the helmet that starts to haunt me and the woodsy scent curled into the fabric of my jacket. I wait for two minutes. Ten. I wonder if he’s circling for water. Maybe the stalls are out of bottles. The longer I wait, I realize he’s panicked and ghosted me. He doesn’t want to be seen. Doesn’t want to be identified. That’s what the reporter in me concludes.
The BookTok Girlie in me can’t stop thinking about the mysterious biker. Is he a cop? Criminal? Stalker? I really hope the last one. I’ve been praying for a long time. God hasn’t delivered so far, so I’ve resorted to writing Santa wish lists. I know I should be terrified. Drive home as fast as I can and pack one of Harper’s guns in my handbag. But all I want to know ishis name. And why does his touch make me feel safe for the first time in years?
That leaves the last part of me to draw judgment. The girl who’s scared of locked doors and footsteps in dim spaces doesn’t trust a man who appears out of nowhere three times, says all the right things, and then disappears before I can ask any real questions. Our meeting wasn’t random. He wants something. What, besides making my heart forget how to beat properly? Why? And who is he? My mind can’t let it go and suspects he’s connected to Blackthorn. Does he know I’m investigating him and the Ares family for my blog?
I try not to let my mind spiral into anxiety and file Mr. Sexy Biker away as a pleasant dream. The fog in my head clears a little more when I wrap up my nibbled mooncake in a napkin, tuck it in my handbag for later, and order some noodles and dumplings for Harper and me to eat tonight.
Time to get home. Triple-check my locks and jam a chair under the door handles. Bribe Josh with treats for a sofa cuddle. Tell Harper all about the chance encounter and get her impression. Fall apart in a safer space if she thinks Blackthorn’s after me again. I doubt the sexy stranger will catch me a second time.
CHAPTER 4 - AUGUST
Grayson stops dead halfway up the bunker stairs, eyes flicking between me and the door.
I push open the heavy steel submarine door. “You want to wire Kate William’s place, then walk through that damn door and show me you’re ready to tackle this.”
I can’t send a fragile and broken soldier into enemy territory. What if he crashes his Yamaha or freezes and drops a pin camera on the carpet and our target finds the evidence?
This exercise is two-fold—professional and personal. If I can get him out of the bunker once, I’ll encourage him to sleep at his place, rather than in a single-bed cot in a storeroom with no windows. Zero sunlight and fresh air aren’t healthy.
“You always were the scary one in school.” His palms drag over three-day old stubble. “Do I get a gold star on my locker for this excursion?” He weaponizes humor as a distraction the same way I weaponize shame.
I snort. “You get a half compliment and a juice box if you’re lucky.”
“Throw in a bagel and you’re on.” Negotiation is always a good sign.
I nod at the hallway behind me. “Then earn your bagel.”
Grayson hesitates only a second, then exhales through his nose and steps out, the bunker door grinding shut behind him. Good. One foot out. Let’s see if he can keep walking.
“You good?” I clock any sign of him cracking.
He stuffs his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched and braced for a sniper shot. “They teach you this in Police Sensitivity School?”
I stay calm for him. “Graduated top of my class.”
He huffs. “Top of the Constipation Class.”
