Page 3 of Guarded By a Broody Biker

Sighing, I tap the corner of my phone on the velvet-covered table. An elderly woman browses my candles, picking them up one by one to give an almighty sniff, and I give her a distracted smile every time she looks at me. I waited until Peter left earlier, watched him saunter all the way down the street before ducking back inside the market, but I can’t afford to blow off a whole dayof sales. Not if I’m about to make the most expensive purchase of my life.

“Lavender,” the elderly woman says approvingly, sniffing this candle even deeper. She’s got one of those super neat short perms, though a few hairs have frizzed loose in the humidity. “I always loved lavender. It helps you sleep, you know.”

Not when you’re being stalked by an unhinged ex boyfriend—but hey. Even lavender can’t work miracles.

“It was my mom’s favorite too,” I say, and the woman must hear the sadness in my voice because she sets the candle down and pats my hand.

“I’ll take three.”

I box them up for her extra nicely, wrapping them up in a cream ribbon and scraping the fabric with the edge of some scissors until the ribbon curls. I double-check all the wicks, too, to make sure they’re brand new, because Lighter Guy definitely scorched a few candles to make his point before he left earlier.

“A pretty girl like you must meet some interesting people in this market.”

The elderly woman has one of those wheeled shopping bags that looks like it’s made out of old curtains. She fumbles to get the box of candles inside, but when I stand up to help she waves me off.

“Yes,” I agree, hovering over the table awkwardly. “Interesting people. Definitely.”

I met Peter in this market, after all, over by the coffee stall one morning. He’s an evil bastard, but he’s definitely not boring.

“There!” My customer straightens up, pleased, and dusts off her hands. “Fits like a glove. Now,” she fixes me with a serious look, her wrinkled face creasing even more. “Take care of yourself, won’t you? Promise me.”

And she’s a stranger, someone I’ve never seen before or will see again, but the fact that she cares about me even a little brings a lump to my throat.

I nod quickly, waving goodbye as she wheels her shopping bag around. “I will.”

As soon as she’s gone, I snatch my phone up and tapsend.

I’m getting myself a bodyguard.

Two

Axel

When Cerberus calls me, I’m up to my elbows in motor grease, fine-tuning the engine on my bike. My phone vibrates in my back pocket, buzzing impatiently as I push to my feet, wipe my hands on an old rag, and dig it out.

My fingerprints leave dark marks on the cover, but hey, everything I own is scuffed to shit in one way or another.

“Yeah?”

The voice on the other end is clipped, all business. Cerberus is like that with me. Maybe some of the other guys on his payroll get closer, get to know the real man behind the fake name, but I’m out here on the coast with no urge to haul my ass to Montana and meet in person, so I don’t see our relationship flowering anytime soon.

“You’ve got a job if you want it. Only a few miles away.”

“I’m listening.” Listening, and scrubbing the worst of the oil from my knuckles. I swear to god, no matter how often I wash my hands, I can never fully scrub the ingrained dirt from thecreases of my skin. Good thing there’s no one around here I’m looking to impress.

“It’s some woman,” Cerberus says. “Sounded young. Didn’t say why she needs protection.”

“Right.”

Drugs, probably, in these parts. You get caught up with the wrong crowds, seduced into some small-time dealing, then bam. Folks can’t get out of the mess they’re in. We see it all the time.

Hey, I’m not here to judge—I just want to get paid. And honestly, I prefer the jobs for real people who are down on their luck than babysitting some sniffy, paranoid businessmen. Those jobs are the worst.

“She’s only paid for one day.”

I pause, the rag pressed against my knuckles. The phone’s tucked between my ear and shoulder, and I squint at the concrete floor. I’m in my building’s underground parking lot, tools scattered around me where I’ve been making my bike purr like a kitten. The black paintwork gleams in the low light, and I shake my head. Must’ve heard him wrong.

“One day makes no sense.” No threat is that short-lived. Not in the work we do.

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