Page 4 of Guarded By a Broody Biker

“No,” Cerberus agrees. “But maybe she wants to try you out before she buys you for any longer.”

Makes sense, I guess. I shrug, the phone rocking beneath my ear, and kneel down again next to my bike, tools scraping across the concrete as I pack them away. Sounds echo weirdly in this space—I swear I can hear the steadydrip, dripof rainwater on the other side of the garage like it’s right next to my ear.

“Send me the details.”

The boss grunts. “Doing it now.”

“Anything else I should know?”

There’s a brief pause, which I spend cursing under my breath and shaking the tool box, trying to get them to lie nice and neatinstead of all jumbled. Funny enough, shaking them up doesn’t help.

“Go easy on her,” Cerberus says at last. Despite his military vibe, there’s a heart somewhere under all those clipped instructions. “She sounded scared.”

I suck on my teeth. “They’re all scared.”

Thirty minutes later, I swing a leg over my bike and rumble out of the parking lot, wearing a backpack of supplies, a sheathed knife at my belt, and no expression. When drivers glimpse me driving past in the street, they clench their steering wheels tighter and flinch.

Yeah, this girl might be scared, but whatever the problem is—I’m scarier.

She’d better make her twenty four hours with me count.

* * *

I pull up outside an indoor market hall at 3pm, raindrops pattering against my bike leathers. It’s been drizzling all day, with damp clinging to my clothes, my short beard, my dark hair. One of those days when you never fully dry out, and everyone around you smells musty. The town rooftops are slick and black.

Inside, it’s even damper somehow. We’re out of the rain, sure—except for a few leaks dripping down from the fogged glass ceiling high above—but in here, the air is thick with people’s breath and body heat. The crowd is packed tight between the market stalls, and people chat and laugh as they browse, moving through the room in a treacle-slow current.

There’s a hiss of steam from a food stall nearby. The sizzle of a wok and, further on, the nutty, bitter smell of roasted coffee beans. My gut clenches, growling beneath my clothes, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since breakfast—but it’s too late to stop and snack now. I’m officially on the job, and that means thatfor the next twenty four hours, my own bodily needs are a low priority.

I pass stalls selling music records, vintage brooches, coin collections and rare stamps. Others with local cheeses and artisanal wines; handmade jams, jellies and pickles. Clothes stalls, baked goods, an electrical repair stand. A tiny booth tucked out of the way with a sly, long-haired man, shuffling a stack of tarot cards in his elegant fingers.

The sound presses on my ear drums. The heat sticks my t-shirt to my back. I slide my phone out of my pocket and check the details again, squinting down at Cerberus’ message.

Kingshaven Market. Melted Hearts candle stall.

Jem.

Mouth twisting, I shove the phone back in my pocket and press on.

It shouldn’t take me as long to find her as it does. From the outside, it’s an ordinary sized building—not small, by any means, but maybe the size of a town hall—but inside the market, it’s labyrinthine. So many crooked alleyways among the stalls to wander down and get lost; so many oddities and distractions.

I finally find the Melted Hearts candle stall in the back left corner of the market, tucked away in a pool of relative calm. There are still people brushing past, still people browsing the wares, but it’s less claustrophobic over here without strangers’ elbows digging into my ribs.

I step up to the table and frown down at the young woman huddled on a metal chair. Her dark hair is shoulder-length, with messy bangs that are fluffed up from the humidity, and one tan shoulder shows where her gray sweater has slipped to one side. She’s chewing on her thumbnail, staring around the nearby crowd with a small frown.

I cough to clear my throat. “Jem?”

She jolts and looks up at me, and…fuck.

Never seen eyes like hers before. Not close up. Not like this: big, fringed in dark eyelashes; brandy-colored and lined in kohl.

“Yes?” Her voice is faint, but defiant. This young woman may be scared out of her wits, but she’s not about to admit that fact. She raises her pointy little chin in challenge and waits for me to speak.

“I’m Axel,” I say. “From Spartan Shield Corp.”

The woman—Jem—blanches, checking her watch. It’s a cheap watch, held on by a fraying fabric strap, and I file that information away before glancing at her table.

Stacks of candles are grouped together, arranged prettily by size, each with a little handwritten label that gives their scent. A purple velvet cloth covers the table, worn shiny in some places, and there’s a battered old card reader by her wrist. Suddenly, it’s no mystery why she only bought one day of protection—in fact, she must have been truly desperate to hire me at all.

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