Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(30)

Out of nowhere, she felt Red’s glove-covered hand on hers. He squeezed, once, and she remembered that he was driving, actively controlling the beast beneath her. They weren’t just flying through the world willy-nilly on a murder machine. An odd sort of calm moved through her and she remembered what he’d said earlier. If I die, I die.

If she died, she’d be doing so on the back of an intensely sexy superintendent’s motorbike. Not a bad way to go, all things considered.

The blurry world grew even blurrier as their speed increased. She felt like data lost in the stream. Cars and buildings whipped by, as if the two of them were moving through time and dimensions rather than just space. It reminded her of the way she’d been years and years ago, running through crisp air as if she were flying, the thought of pain and life-changing fatigue never even crossing her mind.

The thrumming heat of the engine beneath her began to feel like a comfort, and then, all at once, like a tease. So did the body in front of her, though he wasn’t doing a damned thing to make her feel that way. It was past time to accept that Redford Morgan made her as hot and bothered as Enrique Iglesias in the “Hero” music video, with considerably less effort. That was why she felt so odd and unsettled around him: because he shoved her into motion the way he had this motorbike, as if he had the key to her motor. Being around him without melting was another bite-sized step of bravery, just like every item on her Get a Life list.

Maybe he could help her come alive. Maybe he could help her with the rest of her list.

She bit her lip and her teeth felt too sharp for her mouth, as if she’d turned into a predator. She couldn’t see a damned thing without her glasses but suddenly it didn’t matter; she had wild eyes, that was all, wild just like the rest of her. Her skin was electrically charged, so she could do whatever she wanted—including make another deal with the boldest man she knew. There was safety in transactional relationships, after all. If he refused to help her, or if he tried and got tired and gave her up as a lost cause, it wouldn’t rip her heart out like every other exhausted abandonment had.

It would just be the end of a deal.

But then she remembered that, when this ride ended, she’d have to confess what she’d done. That she’d invaded his privacy, that she’d practically stalked him. She highly doubted any deals would be forthcoming after that.

Would they?



Pippa had ridden with him once.

She hadn’t liked it, which was fine. Red knew perfectly well that certain thrills weren’t for everyone. The fact that his girlfriend had no tattoos hadn’t bothered him—why would it?—so the fact that she’d hated the bike hadn’t bothered him, either. He still remembered the way she’d stumbled off it that first time, yanking off her helmet so her glossy hair spilled out like a waterfall. He always remembered images like that.

She’d spat, “Never again, Red!” and when he’d laughed, she’d lost her temper and called him an imbecile with dog-shit sensibilities. For some reason, at the time, he’d thought that was a fight with his feisty girlfriend rather than an insult that would gnaw away at something vital in him. Maybe that was his problem in a nutshell: he’d seen cruelty like that as a challenge. And he’d felt rewarded when she wanted him, grateful when she stood at his side with all her poise and polish and easily recognized personhood in galleries where he felt barely human.

So, when she’d posed for Instagram photos on his bike, the one she hated so much, he hadn’t let himself think it was odd. He’d watched her post the pictures with captions implying she was some badass biker chick, and then he’d locked his bike up and gotten in her chauffeur-driven car, just the way she liked it. Everything was for show. He’d been an accessory in more ways than one.

He had no idea why he’d taken Chloe out today. Why he’d agreed to her deal when he knew damn well he could pay for the consultation with actual cash. This was supposed to be his personal pleasure, now, never to be used again. Maybe he was falling back into bad habits, seeing cruelty as a challenge. But everything in him rejected the idea that Chloe could ever really be cruel. And besides, he didn’t see her as a challenge; he saw her as an enjoyable pain in the arse. She made him irritable, yeah, but worse, she made him … curious. Oddly energized in a way he’d been craving, a way that felt so simply good.

And the way she felt sitting behind him right now? That made him satisfied.

Her thighs squeezed him as she screamed, which he liked more than he should. The screaming because it was so wild, so unexpected, and so full of glittering excitement. The squeezing because she was so soft and so hot, plastered against him like they were the only two people on earth. As if his physical fascination with her needed any more fuel. He’d only meant to run around the block real quick, but he was worried that if he stopped now, he might do something awful, like kiss the fuck out of Chloe Brown. And Christ, wouldn’t that be the end of the world?

It would, he told himself. It really fucking would.

He spent the next ten minutes concentrating harder on the road than he had since his very first ride, forcing himself to calm down. By the time they pulled into the same car park where this fiasco had begun, his body was mostly under control. There was just the secret, burning core of him, smoldering for her. Good thing she’d never see it. He could almost pretend it wasn’t there.

He cut the engine, toed the stand, dragged his helmet off, and sucked down some much-needed air. Behind him, he felt her fidgeting like a little kid. He held out his hand in silence, and she gave him her helmet and slipped off the bike. He stood. Wondered if, despite that one exhilarated scream, she’d actually hated it. Wondered why she’d wanted to go out in the first place. Opened his mouth to ask.