Page 9 of Guarded By a Broody Biker

“Sir, yes, sir.”

I climb on first, then her weight settles behind me on the bike, her arms wrapping around my waist. My heart stutters.

Focus.

“You know how to take the corners, sweetheart?”

Fuck. I shouldn’t call Jem that—not while she’s my client, anyway. But it’s out there now, and the word tasted so sweet on my tongue that I can’t persuade myself to take it back.

“Nope.” Jem sounds shy, but not annoyed about the pet name. That’s good.

“Just lean with me.” I adjust my grip on the handlebars, the leather of my jacket creaking as I shift my weight. “Don’t fight it, okay? I’ll keep you safe, I promise. Just trust me.”

“I do,” she says, so quiet I nearly miss it, and then I turn the key and the engine roars to life beneath us. It’s a rich, low purr, all restrained power and fine-tuned engineering that rumbles through my teeth and bones, and Jem sounds breathless as she tells me her address. Since I’m an asshole, I rev the engine once or twice just to feel her laugh against my back, then we pull away from the sidewalk.

Slow. Go slow.

The stars glitter high above and below, in the night sky and in the dark puddles in the gutter, everything blurring together as we drive past. It’s cold enough now that the wind bites at the sliver of exposed skin below my beard; it snakes up my jacket sleeves to chill my insides.

Take it easy. Easy.

There’s no way I’m risking Jem by driving recklessly. Not ever—and especially not on a night like this, when she’s new to the bike and the roads are slick with rain. It’d be a dick move anyways, but this isJem, and she said back there that she trustsme to keep her safe, so I take each corner like an octogenarian. We weave between potholes; we trundle over speed bumps with barely a jolt. Even then, there’s a hot puff of breath against my back each time, like she’s taken by surprise.

Fingers flexing, I grip the handlebars tighter. It’s for the best that I can’t touch her right now—it’s keeping me professional. If my hands were free, I might reach a hand back and slide a palm along her thigh, feeling the heat beneath that denim; I might rub at the knobby bones of her knee with my thumb, testing to see if she shivers.

“Left here,” Jem shouts, her voice snatched away by the wind, and I grunt a response she can’t hear, then turn us onto a new, narrower street lined with half-dressed trees and beat-up cars.

We pull up outside her place, and the engine dies. The sudden silence rings in my ears. She lives here? Is this neighborhood safe? Again, that blond prick from earlier smirks in my mind’s eye, and a hot wave of repressed violence surges through my blood. How dare he scare my girl?

“Home sweet home,” Jem says weakly, wobbling as she climbs off the bike behind me.

Gritting my teeth, I follow.

* * *

Most of the folks who hire temporary bodyguards aren’t exactly hurting for money. They’re businessmen who pissed off the wrong shady partner, or small-time celebrities who shot to fame unexpectedly and got worried about pushy fans. They’re high-profile lawyers in the run-up to a big court case, or journalists who are pulling at a dangerous thread on the hunt for a story.

They’re rich—or at least, rich enough to afford Spartan Shield Corp’s fees—with enough power and influence to needprotection in the first place.

They’re not like this. Not like Jem, with her converted attic studio apartment, the wallpaper peeling and the furniture mismatched. Her curtains are so threadbare that even when she yanks them closed, the light from the streetlamp glows through. I set my backpack by the door, unzip my jacket with steady hands, and watch her with a carefully blank expression.

“So. Um.” Jem waves around the tiny apartment, encompassing the whole place with one jerky swing of her arm. There’s a single bed pushed against one wall; a lumpy pinstriped armchair in front of an old-fashioned TV; a bookcase stuffed with worn paperbacks and magazines; a tiny kitchenette in one corner. Over by the wall, an open cardboard box spills the scent of vanilla candles, while the one door must lead to the bathroom. “This is it,” she says. “Make yourself at home.”

How, I think, but I don’t say that out loud. I shrug my jacket off instead, hanging it on the single door hook and hoping it doesn’t drip too badly on the floor. And it’s not that I’m fussy, not that I’m too snobby to get comfortable, but listen: I could spread-eagle in the middle of this apartment floor and touch all four walls in one go. When I stand up straight, my dark hair brushes along the ceiling. I am not built to scale for this place. I’m like Godzilla in a dollhouse.

Jem seems to be coming to the same conclusion, her shoulders sagging as she takes in the awkward duck of my head. She wraps both arms around her waist, hugging as she shrinks in on herself.

“Oh. Right, yeah.” Jem looks around helplessly, but there’s nowhere to put me. Nowhere for us both to sit. “I didn’t—didn’t think.” She puffs out a defeated sigh, then scrubs her face. “Maybe weshouldgo out tonight.”

And—screw that. Jem looks too tired, too pale, too damp from the rain to head back out into the blustery night. I don’tcare if I spend the whole night with a crick in my neck from the low ceiling, because my girl is home and she’s going to get comfy, damn it.

“A hot shower.” I kick off my boots, placing them neat as I can by the door. “That’s what you said you wanted. A hot shower and the slobbiest PJs you own.”

A flush darkens Jem’s cheeks. “I meant that metaphorically.”

“That’s too bad.” I roll my stiff neck and shake out my arms, then prowl the three steps to meet Jem in the center of the room. My hair drags along the ceiling as I go. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing those PJs. I’ve been picturing ‘em.”

Jem flushes even redder, but tilts her head up to hold my gaze, and lord—it takes everything in me not to reach out and graze her cheek with my knuckles. “Oh yeah?” she says.

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