Page 74 of Painted Scars
CHAPTER 20 - AUGUST
My brain fritzes the moment she comes out of the bathroom, tight black leather jacket zipped low enough to frame the swell of her bust. Beneath it, a buttercup sundress, riding high on her thigh. A trap disguised as innocence that’ll hike up the second she gets on the back of my bike.
The world slows as she walks to me, hips swaying, sunlight catching the streaks in her hair and the pink blended with blue in the corner of her eyelids. Dress goddamn rippling around her legs like a slow-motion romantic trailer. Every step hammers my restraint, urging me to shake off my helmet, give her my face, and get down on my knees to worship her.
My jaw grits. “Are you trying to cause a traffic accident? Because I’ll bust someone’s side mirror for leering at you.”
Grayson will have to scrub another incident off the public record.
Pink cheekbones lift into a devilish smile, and she leans in close, pressing a painted finger to my helmeted chin. “Did the green stalker show up today? I thought you had self-control?”
Little she-devil.
“When we’re done here,” I growl. “You’re riding up front, and my fingers are going into your panties until you’re begging for forgiveness.”
Her wicked smile stretches wider. “I’ll wear short dresses more often, Grumpy Daddy.”
I lift a backpack from the floor and thread it over my shoulder to stop myself from throwing her on the bed and fucking that triumphant smile off her face. It’s packed with fresh clothes, toiletries, and food for our next task.
I steal Kate’s hand. “You’re going to start a war, Glitter Bomb.”
She leans up on her tiptoes and paints a cheery gloss kiss on the bottom of my visor.
For a second, I forget the brewing war, the mission, even my name. I almost take off my helmet, reach for her chin, tilt her face, and kiss her until she forgets why she lost her true smile. My hands ache from pressing them tightly to my side. If I start now, I won’t stop breathing more darkness into her.
“Fiend.” I crack her on the ass and tug her downstairs, exiting her house.
PJ3 whines inside. Little guy thinks he’s human.
When we reach my bike parked two blocks away, she sasses me more. “Looks like you’ll have your work cut out for you, changing your hiding spot as well as your license plate.”
I curl my thumb and forefinger over her chin. “My work’s cut out for me keeping your mouth busy.”
“Don’t worry, Grumpy Daddy,” she reassures. “I won’t tell anybody about your plates or parking spot. I’m a good girl who deserves to be bent over your bike and ruined for all other men.”
This woman will ruin me.
I bend my helmet to her forehead, a kiss through polycarbonate. “Good girls get rewards.”
She shivers and strokes my arm.
Needing to leave, I reluctantly pull away and remove the backpack and fit it to her shoulders since it’s easier to ride that way without it digging into her stomach. I get on the bike, start it, and pat the back seat for her. She gives my helmet another kiss before swinging on behind me, dropping her helmet on. Temptation to bend her over the bike and eat her out on the pavement for all her neighbors to see is overwhelming. Once she’s secure, I slide on my riding gloves and take off before I wreck her.
The feel of her pressed to my back is even better the second time around. Little she-devil maps my chest, stomach, and shoulders with her hands, and slips under my jacket, pinching my nipples and playing with the hair on my stomach and chest. The ride is pure torture, and by the time we pull off the main road, my cock’s pressing against my jeans, and my self-control’s holding on by a thread.
I pull up in the underpass camp no one wants to admit exists. Blue tarps and tents lean against each other like old friends holding each other, some torn and patched with duct tape and determination. Bulging plastic bags contain clothing, food, toys, or mementos, the sum of a life that can be carried. Milk crates and camping tables warped by time and dirt act as seats and stands for those eating.
Kate dismounts and removes her helmet, fluffing life into her flattened hair with one hand. Even with helmet hair and smudged lip gloss, she’s sunshine in the middle of despair. Too bright for a place like this.
She sets her helmet on the back seat and scans the camp with a soft curiosity. “You sure know how to impress a girl.”
“The date comes later.” I take the rucksack off her and carry it. “First, I want you to meet someone.”
I take her hand and lead her through the maze of lives suspended in survival. Muttering voices fall silent at our entrance. The kind of hush that precedes a storm.
Smoke curls out from rusted barrels serving as fireplaces, where residents stand around and warm themselves, murmuring at arrival, gazes panning the length of my guest. Scents mingle together, woodsmoke, dust, damp earth, rust, and the sharp edge of survival, bodies in desperate need of a shower. Kate sniffs and wipes her nose. Most of that doesn’t penetrate my helmet, but I’ve been here many times before to visit my contact.
“Who are we meeting?” Kate scans the weary, lined, and dirty faces studying her.
