Page 43 of The Reaper

He looked at me. “Seriously?”

I felt stupid. Anyone could google my name and find out that it was my last assignment. He grabbed my bag and placed it on top of a small platform, using bungee cords to secure it in place.

“What about you?” I asked.

He shrugged.

“What about a helmet? It’s illegal to ride without one. Not to mention dangerous.”

He looked at me before tapping my leg. “I have a smaller one,” he said. He opened the small fiberglass compartment matching the color of his bike. “They have a microphone and small speaker so we can hear each other.”

“Oh, okay,” I said. I pulled the helmet over my head and was assaulted by citrus and mint. A wave of dizziness made my head spin as Archer’s scent sent blood rushing south. This was going to be interesting.

He hopped on and pushed up the kickstand. “Ready?” he asked.

“Yeah.” I climbed on behind him and stared at my hands. I looked at Jessica, who was watching us, and she waved. “Be careful, guys,” she yelled.

“Wrap your arms around my waist,” Archer ordered. I snaked my hands around his waist, feeling his hard stomach. I didn’t know if it was my imagination, but I felt him shiver under my touch. “So, Father, where to?”

“New Hampshire,” I answered. “And you can call me Heath since we’re friends now.”

“I can do that.” Archer pulled my hands closer, tightening my hold on his body. “I still prefer Father though.”

Twenty-Two: The Reaper

He looked like a man who would be named Heath. Heath Saint James. One of those fancy names belonging to an influential family.

“Are you ready?” I asked, basking in my brilliant plan. I love it when shit goes accordingly. I had stayed up watching for my priest, because his lights indicated he had been up all night. I might be a little selfish, but I wasn’t about to let him go on a trip without me. I was just lucky that he didn’t leave right away. Some quick pokes with an icepick and I was his savior.

Last night, while breaking into Father Saint James’s home, I concluded it was my new favorite hobby. There was so much to him that was a mystery. Who was his late-night caller, why was he up before the break of dawn … my interest was piqued, so I paid him another visit. After he’d gone back to his bedroom, I crept into his office. The seat he’d vacated was still warm. I leaned back, picturing my back against his chest, his arms wrapped around me. A USB stuck out of one of the ports and I wondered about the content. For another day, I told myself, opening Father Saint James’s email instead. The only email sitting in his inbox was an encrypted message from the Vatican.

“You didn’t have anything to do with the flat tires, did you?” Heath asked.

Shit. Maybe my plan wasn’t flawless after all. “Did you want me to have something to do with it?” I teased. He was a smart man; if he was asking the question, he already knew the answer. “I can sit here with you all day, if you have the time?”

“Let’s go.”

There was a first for everything, and having someone ride my motorcycle with me was something I never thought would happen, and I didn’t know how I felt about it. Having Heath at such close proximity, his crotch pressing against my ass, should freak me the fuck out. I’d never been this close with anyone outside of fucking, and it was both scary and comforting.

Heath caressed my stomach with his thumb and I wondered if he was aware of the effect it had on my cock. A few more inches lower and he would realize just how much. We’d been on the road for thirty minutes and he was yet to say anything. Surprising, considering he usually had an onslaught of questions and assumptions.

“Sorry about yesterday,” he said after another ten minutes.

“About what?” I asked, glad he couldn’t see my knowing smile.

“I made an assumption and I was out of line. You came to confess and I should’ve kept it all about that. Instead of my own selfish agenda.”

Well, that was unexpected. “What agenda?”

“It doesn’t matter. It’d been a long day, and I have yet to have a full night’s sleep since moving here. I’m exhausted.” I knew that too, considering I was practically watching his every move since he arrived in Boston. “Say something,” he demanded.

I wasn’t much of a talker, but I could try. Another fucking first. “What do you want me to say?”

He blew out a breath. “Anything that’s on your mind.”

“Well, let’s see …” I trailed off. A group of trained assassins are after me and want me dead because I’m the fucker who decided to dig shit up about their deals and connections, and then I called a network journalist to help expose The Firm. Oh, by the way, The Firm is an underground society of powerful men and women with links to the government and pretty much all industries in the US and other parts of the world. They were founded to right wrongs vigilante style, but started accepting money to kill almost anyone. Instead I said, “What are you gonna pay me for giving you a ride?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” he grumbled. “I should’ve known.”

---