Page 45 of Smooth Sailing

The elevator doors opened.

Hugger walked in and automatically, I followed.

He hit the button for the lobby level.

“You hacked the complex cameras?” I inquired.

“Resurrection has an ally who can do that kind of shit. This ally’s also got facial recognition software and their hands on pictures of all known associations of Imran Babic. Any one of his boys, or just anyone they don’t got a good feeling for, strolls anywhere near an elevator lobby, we’ll get a call.”

I was feeling a whole lot better about the scope of biker security services as the doors opened and we walked out.

“Ink and Driver?” I asked.

“More Aces.”

“How many of you are there?”

“A lot.”

Definitely feeling a whole lot better.

It was then I realized he was shoving out the door to the main entrance of the complex, and we weren’t on my parking level, as of course we wouldn’t be, because neither of us used a fob.

I stopped. “My car is down two levels.”

He turned to me, half in and half out of the door. “We’re taking my bike.”

Oh hell to the no, we were not.

“I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle in my life.”

Something heated flared in his eyes, but he just said, “Today’s your day.”

“It’ll mess up my hair.”

His gaze went in that direction and his voice had a rough edge to it when he replied, “It absolutely will not.”

“Wind does that.”

He locked his eyes with mine. “Trust me.”

My voice was getting shrill because, really, I wasn’t sure about riding on his bike with him on the same bike.

And that wasn’t all about my hair.

“I’m wearing pumps!”

Yes, nude, patent leather pumps, along with pale pink crop pants and a silky baby-blue crewneck blouse. I was top to toe business casual, not biker babe.

“I’m gettin’ it,” he declared.

“Getting what?”

“Tyra, Lanie. Millie.”

“What?”

“Never got it before, definitely getting it now.”

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