Page 91 of Prodigal Son

Their footfalls echoed off the high ceiling, sharp clicks of boot heels on the concrete. Raven was caught between a mounting thrill – she had the keys in her hand, stolen off the peg by the back door, walking toward the beautiful machine, already feeling the wind on her face – and the terror of discovery. Even wrapped up in a loaned jacket, hair tied back, nighttime goggles perched on her nose, there was no mistaking her for a man. One prospect poking his head out here could blow her cover, and then Phil would take the keys, tell her how disappointed he was, and she just might throw a little kiddie temper tantrum right there on floor.

But their luck held, and then she was right at the bike, and she swung her leg over.

She didn’t believe in magic as a general rule. But something happened when she landed in that seat. A frisson of energy. A burst of hope. She put the key in and her nerves evaporated. She could do this. Shewould.

“Helmet,” Tommy prompted, pulling her from her thoughts.

“Right.” She buckled it on.

He lifted the big roll-top door with its chain, just high enough for them to ride out, then dashed to his own bike.

“You sure you can handle that thing?” he called.

In answer, she started it up, and put up the kickstand with her heel. She and Phillip were almost the same height, and her legs were longer, even, so it wasn’t an issue of size. But once it was running, its engine chuckling and purring and vibrating so much she felt it in her teeth, the machine felthuge.

In a good way.

She twisted the throttle and rolled out; she thought she heard Tommy laugh behind her, and then they were away.

~*~

She’d been seventeen the summer they taught her to ride. Phil had helped, but it had been mostly Albie and King; the two of them had looked almost like twins back then, save King was a little cuter, and Albie frowned more. She’d ridden behind Albie on the way out to an empty field that had once been a warehouse, one of those urban pastures with patchy grass, old bits of asphalt peeking through, crisps bags and long snarls of plastic catching in the grass like blown-down leaves, a factory belching steam and smoke just across the river from them. A gray, leaden, cold day, the air nipping at her nose, and her fingers, even through the too-big riding gloves they’d loaned her.

That had been the start of a five-year run as one of London’s most sought-after models; she’d been thin and gangly as a colt, all legs, plenty of reach to get to the handlebars and foot pegs. She hadn’t looked like a model that day, and hadn’t felt like one either; the jaded flat stare of her work life was traded for windburned cheeks and breathless laughter as she struggled to figure out how to ride the damn thing her whole family was built around.

“I think I’m getting the hang of it,” she’d said, and then careened right into a pile of old scrap lumber. She still had a scar on her collarbone, where a stray nail had sliced a deep gouge. She’d had to get a tetanus shot later, on the way home, but they’d finished the lesson after Phil cleaned her up with his pocket handkerchief, and by the time they left, she’d been able to ride King’s Triumph like she’d been doing it for months instead of hours.

When she asked why it had been so important for her to learn, Phillip had said, “With this family, you just never know what might come in handy.”

Cass had never learned. She hadn’t learned a lot of things, and now she was…

Raven let out a breath and leaned into the next turn, the wind sharp on her face, slipping up under her sleeves and chilling her skin. She couldn’t think about that. Not now.

Tommy hugged her flank, but he let her lead, for which she was stupidly grateful. Some of these biker boys had to be all-macho-all-the-time, but Tommy was a sweetheart. As long as the job got done, he didn’t care who was in charge of it, or what they had between their legs.

They settled beside one another at the next stoplight, and Raven glanced over to see that the car opposite her brother was full of passengers staring openly at them. Huh. So that’s what that felt like. She grinned, shot the gaggling idiots the finger, and took off with a squeal of tires when the light changed.

Ryan Anders lived in a townhouse in Mayfair, and that’s where they were headed, past expensive shopfronts closed up tight for the night, window displays glowing softly, appealing to customers with deep pockets. The ring of tailpipes echoed off glass, and stone, and centuries-old brick, too loud and too uncouth for this part of the city. Raven imagined residents peering out of windows, aghast to find two bikers riding through their high-dollar neighborhood.

She loved it, a little bit.

They’d talked before they left, come up with a plan, and they pulled up to Ryan’s place in the mews, parking a few houses down, just beyond the reach of a streetlamp.

They killed the engines, and waited, letting the last echoes die down, letting the alley settle around them.

Tommy gave a low whistle. “Jesus. Look at this place.”

As far as mews went, this was a nice one. Decorative fall wreaths on the doors, bins lined up tidy, the pavement spotless; she didn’t see one tiny bit of rubbish anywhere. The lampposts were the old-fashioned, black iron kind, their gas lamps replaced with electric ones that mimicked flames.

“I guess,” Tommy added, quiet, a little down, “you’re in places like this all the time.”

“Yes.” No sense lying to the boy. “But they’re not as grand as you might think.”

“You can’t buy happiness, huh?” he teased with a bitter edge.

“No, you really can’t. Now hush.”

At Ryan’s house, a wall sconce flicked on, and a moment later the garage door started trundling up with a low hum.

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