Page 27 of Broken Pact

“Thank you,” I murmur.

Jagger looks over at me, throwing his arm across my shoulder. He’s getting a little too comfortable with that move. But considering he just saved my ass, I don’t call him out on it like I would have a couple of hours ago. “C’mon, girlfriend. Let’s get you to your car.”

“Yeah, about that. My car won’t start. And I was trying to call my brother to help, but I didn’t have any service and?—”

“I’ll take care of it,” he interrupts.

I blink a few times, scooting out from underneath his arm to face him. “What do you mean you’ll take care of it?”

He cocks his head to the side. “I know it’s been awhile, but you do remember I’m a mechanic, right?”

I roll my eyes and scoff. “I know that. I meant that you didn’t have to do that. I’ll call Graham or Beau. They’ll take care of it. I just need to borrow your phone for a second if you don’t mind.”

“Ah,” he says with a tsk. “See, that’s where I do mind though. Because I’m not going to leave you here in the middle of the night. Looks like you’re with me tonight, baby.”

“Don’t call me baby.” I say it automatically, but it lacks its usual fire or strength.

He only grins, jerking his head toward my car. “Lock it up. My bike is this way.”

I’m too tired to push back like I normally would, so I grab my purse and keys from the driver’s seat before locking the car. We walk side by side for two blocks in companionable silence. He doesn’t try to throw his arm around my shoulders, and I realize with a start that I’m . . . disappointed?

No, I think with a shake of my head. That can’t be true. I’m probably just dehydrated.

Before long, we’re back at Grand Avenue, and my steps slow as realization slams into me. “This is a motorcycle.”

“It is.”

“This is your bike.”

His lips twitch. “Don’t tell me. You’ve never been on a bike before.”

I bristle at the teasing in his tone, shifting my weight to my other foot. “So what if I haven’t?”

“Baby, you grew up in a motorcycle town,” he says like that explains everything.

Growing up in Rosewood meant everyone I knew was obsessed with getting the coveted seat on the back of a Reaper’s bike. In fact, too many girls I went to school with made it their life’s goal to secure that seat. A lot of them went on to become bunnies—club girls. Someone who hangs out all the time, can usually crash there if she needs to. Tends to all the Reapers’ needs—whenever they need it.

There’s a misguided notion that the more a bunny helps a Reaper—or many Reapers—the higher her chances are of being selected to be on the back of someone’s bike. It’s kind of like the equivalent of what Nana Jo called going steady. It’s a commitment, a declaration.

Or at least it was.

The way Evangeline tells it, when her husband, Silas St. James, took over as president for the Reapers six or seven years ago, he started making changes. He did away with some of the more archaic—and sexist—rules, but bunnies are still as much around now as they always were. I just think they’re given more freedom in their choices now.

“Yeah, well. So did you.” As far as retorts go, it’s weak.

Laughter spills from him, unbidden and pure. Some of my annoyance melts away like ice cream on a summer day. Sticky remnants remain, but the frostiness is gone.

“Actually, I didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Grow up in Rosewood. Or did you forget that we didn’t go to school together?” he teases, pulling something from the back of his bike.

“Oh. Actually, yeah, I guess I kind of did. And there are two schools in Rosewood, just to be clear. It’s possible that you went to the private one. But none of that changes the fact that I haven’t been on a bike before,” I murmur the last part, nerves dampening my voice.

“It’s alright, baby. You can trust me.”

My gaze cuts to him before I even think. I narrow my eyes. “Really?”

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