Page 22 of Gunner

“What are we doing out here?” he asked.

“Getting our ride.”

“Our ride?”

I nodded to my motorcycle. “You ride in the bitch seat.”

“Or I can take my truck. It’s parked around the front, and I don’t trust your malicious bikers not to damage my vehicle when I’m gone.”

“They won’t tamper with your truck. We don’t damage transportation. Our bikes mean too much to us to mess with another man’s ride.”

“Still, I should drive.”

I straddled the machine. “We’ll get there faster this way.”

“I’m bigger,” he said. “I should be in the front.”

I tilted my head back. “You really want to compare? Because I’m positive I’m bigger where it counts.”

“You know what I mean,” Witter sputtered, but he climbed onto the back of the bike without further argument. I handed him a helmet. Reluctantly.

As I rode off into the night, he didn’t hold on to me but clutched the back of his seat, his body swaying with the motions of the bike as if he was familiar with riding. Surprised, I increased the speed and took the corners short. He grabbed my shoulder, seemed to think better of it, and wrapped an arm around my middle. In not too long, he was plastered to my back, tightening his arm whenever I took a curve.

“Will you slow down?” Witter yelled. “You’re breaking the speed limit.”

“Just enjoy the ride.”

He wasn’t. Tension filled his large frame, which was now flush up against me. He didn’t loosen his grip on me either. In fact, he had a handful of my shirt in his fist, clinging to me like I was his lifeline. Probably making sure that if I tossed him off, I would go along with him.

The ride across town took us to an even more rundown part of Smoky Vale than where our clubhouse was. The deeper we drove onto Ennis Street, the more the signs of poverty, crime, and drug use became blatant.

I braked outside a three-story apartment building, lowered the kickstand, and turned off the ignition.

“Was the fast riding called for?” Witter growled into my ear as I removed the helmet.

“What’s not to love about a fast ride? The danger, the adrenaline. There’s only one speed when you own a bike. Faster.”

“You need a shrink to crack open that brain of yours.”

“They’ve tried. Let go.”

“What?”

I tapped his hand, which still clutched my shirt. “I know you’ve grown quite attached to me, but—”

Witter released me as if I’d poured scalding water on his hand. He hopped off the motorcycle and removed his helmet with his face turned to the building.

“What are we doing here?” he asked.

“Helping you with your case like I promised.”

“Oh? Or is this where you get rid of my body?”

I leered at him. “Relax. It’s not that time yet. There’s still a lot I don’t know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“When the time’s right, you’ll know.” I nodded at the apartment building. “Butcher’s former old lady lives here.”

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