Page 68 of Brazen Criminals

While Emma finishes half of her hash browns, my phone buzzes like crazy. First one text, then another, from an unknown number. The texts, though, are obviously from Bryce.

Why did you block my number? It must be a mistake.

Baby, I don’t understand. Please, can we just talk?

Clara, baby, come home. I love you.

You owe me an explanation. Why did you do this to me?

No restraining order will keep us apart. I know you don’t mean it.

You’re mine, and I keep what is mine.

I’m on my way. I’ll keep you safe.

The texts keep flooding in, and I panic, turning off my phone. “What is it?” Emma asks.

“Bryce.” My hands are shaking as I wipe them on my pants, and I look up and down the street, no longer feeling safe out on the sidewalk.

Emma flags down the waiter to get our checks. “How bad?”

“I want to go home,” I whisper, my vision blurry with held-back tears.

“Do you want to call one of the guys?”

I shake my head. “I don’t want to turn on the phone. What if he somehow got another tracking app on there? I don’t know. I’m freaking out.”

She pulls out her phone and quickly sends a text. The waiter brings the check, happy to get a table turn during peak brunch hours. I toss down the necessary cash, but realize too late that we forgot to ask for a box for my omelet. God-damn it. Bryce just stole my fucking lunch.

I remind myself to be the scythe, not the fucking daisies, and I stand up straight, pretending to have courage that I’m sure I’ll never have. I feed the embers of my anger as Emma and I hold hands, weaving between tables and out around the corner. Her phone buzzes and she drags me down an alley.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“I sent out the bat signal. One of your guys will meet us at the other end of this alley.”

I hug Emma, practically knocking her over. “Thank you.”

“I’m just glad I have Walker’s number,” she says, squeezing me back. “I don’t think he’s the one picking you up, though. Someone was closer, I guess.” She pulls out of the hug and drags me farther down the alley, our hands still locked together. I glance behind me, and I swear I see someone rushing down the alley behind us, deep in the shadows cast by the building, but my eyes are blind from sitting in the sun on the patio.

I pick up the pace, jogging. Emma matches me step for step as I check over my shoulder. The shadow moves faster too, its gait wonky. It moves like it recently had some ribs broken, and I’m certain Bryce has somehow found me. I run faster, my shoulder sore but not agonizing, Emma panting beside me.

We burst out of the alley on the other side, and I search desperately for a familiar car. Emma pulls me left so we’re running against oncoming traffic on one of the few one-way streets in Dinkytown. I still don’t see any of the guys’ cars, when a motorcycle roars across three lanes of traffic and screeches to a stop next to us. I try to run past it, scared Bryce suddenly has backup, when I hear RJ yell, “Clara, hop on!”

I turn back as the rider tosses back his visor, and RJ’s gold-brown eyes catch mine, more intense than I’ve ever seen them. He holds out a hand, and I twist back to Emma.

“Go on,” she says, “my car’s just down the next block. I’ll text Walker when I’m home. It’s not me he wants. Go!” She gives my good shoulder a shove, sprinting away, her pink hair an afterburn trailing behind her.

I slide onto the motorcycle just as Bryce stumbles out of the half-light of the alleyway. “Clara!” he yells.

RJ clutches my good arm to his waist as the bike jumps onto the street, swerving through cars and zipping through a yellow light, the sound of Bryce’s shouts drowned by the roar of the engine.

I press my cheek against RJ’s back, catching my breath. All of me holding on tight.

I’ve never been on a motorcycle before, and the rumble of the machine reminds me of a cat’s purr, but amped up to eleven. The hum works its way through my bones, and I relax into RJ. My front is plastered to his back, my thighs against his, the hum from the engine both calm and enticing. I suddenly understand the appeal of riding bitch.

We pull into the alley behind our house sooner than I’d like, but the relief I feel as we park next to Trips’ truck reminds me that now is not the time for a joy ride. RJ switches off the bike, pulling off his helmet, his hair springing free. I’m still grasping him, not quite ready to let go. He holds my hand against his stomach, a quiet moment of comfort. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m scared,” I whisper.

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