Page 67 of Long Way Down

Pongo, the little shit, waved at the cop, and plucked his helmet off the handlebars. It was matte black, like the bike, but had a little white pawprint decal on the back of it. He offered it to her.

She frowned. “You only have the one?”

“Yep. So you wear it. I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll get pulled over.”

He pointed at the retreating patrol car and grinned. “Hasn’t happened yet.”

“You ride without a helmet often?”

He shrugged. “Eh. Sometimes.”

Her stomach lurched like it had earlier, when he’d talked about the prostitutes. He had a helmet, which meant if he rode without it, it was because he’d given it to his passenger. His female passenger.

How many women did he go around calling sweetheart? Did he have cute little nicknames for them, too?

Or, a worse thought: was he courting other cops in different departments? Using female detectives to further the club’s aims?

“Dixie?” he prompted, brows knitting. “You okay?”

She took the helmet. “Yeah.” When she crammed it down onto her head, she discovered that it was too big for her, and that it smelled of his shampoo, something citrusy and fresh that he always left behind on her pillows. She clicked it into place and tightened the strap with a lump in her throat.

He reached up to check the fit when she was done, sliding a finger along the tender skin under her jaw, eliciting a prickle of goosebumps down the back of her neck. He nodded, seeming satisfied, and his gaze dropped to her waistband. “Gotta lose the badge and gun.”

Anxiety flared at the notion. “What? No.”

“Come on, Dixie. The place we’re going, you can’t walk in looking like a cop. You gotta pretend you’re a civilian and play it cool.” His head tilted, gaze assessing. “Can you do that? Can you actuallybecool?”

She drew herself upright. “Cooler thanyou,” she shot back.

He laughed. “Aw, baby, not even close, but that’s cute.”

“You’re–” She caught herself before she stupidly parroted his own word back at him, uncool as summer back home, and the quirk of his brows said he knew what she’d almost said.

“Badge and gun,” he prompted, “or I’m not taking you.”

“Ugh. Fine.”

She put both in her bag and felt naked for it.

He gave her a long, up-and-down once-over, after. “Hm. Guess you’ll do.”

“Guess I’ll do? Where the hell are we going?”

“You’ll see. Come on.” He straddled his bike and held out a hand to help her on. “M’lady.”

She didn’t take his hand – but did have to grip his shoulder as she climbed up onto the tiny little bump seat and found the footpegs with her boots. It was a precarious perch, even sitting still, and her belly fluttered with nerves.

“I’m not starting her up until you hold on,” Pongo said over his shoulder.

She tightened her grip on both his shoulders.

He tsked. “Nah. That’s not gonna cut it.”

“Who are you, my mother?” she griped, but she did want to talk to the vic, so she slipped her arms around his waist and took a tight hold of his middle.

It wasn’t the closest they’d been. They’d been naked and fitted together in nearly every configuration, overlapping and breathing heavy and scoring one another’s skin with blunt nails. But something about sitting snug against his back like this, feeling his ribs expand on his next breath, her chin tucked over his shoulder, felt intimate in a way they never had been during sex. In the throes, base pleasure outcompeted every other sensation. But like this, now, she could smell soap and cologne and skin; could see the little nick at the top of his ear usually covered by hair and wonder how he’d obtained it. He had freckles on the back of his neck, too, faint brown, where the sun stole beneath the rear edge of his helmet like seeking fingers.

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