Page 44 of The Reaper

“Never ask a question with an answer you’re not ready for,” I said.

“That’s deep.”

“That’s me, all right. Deep.”

“Do you prefer motorcycles over cars?” he asked after a prolonged silence.

“Yeah.”

“What do you like about it?”

“It’s liberating. Freeing.” I didn’t want to say more than that, I’d said too much already.

Cars slowed down, blue and red lights flashed half a mile ahead of us. My heart went into a frenzy, trying to jump out of my chest. The traffic stopped, but I kept moving, navigating through parked cars to get to the shoulder of the freeway.

“We should stop,” Heath said.

“Nah, we’re gonna be late.” That was only one of the reasons. I didn’t trust that The Firm had nothing to do with what was going on up ahead. I didn’t want to put the priest in danger.

I turned my handlebars to switch lanes, but a car jerked forward, blocking us. I banged on his car twice. The spot where my fist made contact left a dent on the hood.

The driver blasted his horn, raising his hands in the air.

I lifted my hand for another blow, but he backed up to allow us to pass. I flipped him off as a thank you.

“Calm down. I wanna get there alive.”

“We’ll be late,” I said, revving the motor impatiently.

“We’ll be okay.” Heath rubbed my thighs, soothing the shit out of me. “Sorry about that,” he yelled to the driver of the car.

“You’re wasting your breath. He can’t hear you,” I said, tapping on my helmet. “I, however, can, and that fucking hurt my ears.”

Four lanes and thirty seconds later, we were speeding ahead of everyone. The cops responding to the accident were too busy dealing with the flipped car and paid us no mind. I exhaled my relief.

***

“This is it,” Heath said as we parked outside the gaudy black iron gate with alternating crosses and fleur-de-lis spikes plated in gold. A brick driveway separated two exceptionally well-manicured lawns that would make the groundskeeper of Wimbledon envious. A marble statue of Jesus Christ with cascading water from his hands decorated the middle of a roundabout. The two uniformed guards manning the ornate wooden doors had their narrowed gazes trained on us.

“Subtle design,” I said.

Heath laughed before removing his helmet. “Here,” he said, handing it back to me. “Thanks again. Since I might stay the night, you don’t have to wait.” He loosened the cord tied around his bag. “Be safe going back.”

“How are you gonna get home?” I asked, ignoring the disappointment gnawing inside my rotten core.

“I’ll figure it out.” He turned but I grabbed his hand before he took his first step. He looked down at our joined hands in surprise.

“Fuck that.” I pulled my cell from my pocket. “I’m taking you home. What’s your number?”

“Archer, don’t—”

“Number,” I demanded.

“Okay, okay.” I tapped each digit as he spoke them, then pressed the call button.

He raised an eyebrow as he grabbed the vibrating phone from the pocket of his bag. “What are you doing?” Heath showed me his caller ID with my number.

“Just making sure you didn’t give me the wrong number,” I said. It wasn’t one of my proudest moments. “I’ll find an Airbnb for tonight. Call me when you’re ready.”

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