Page 68 of Long Way Down

He toed up the kickstand, shifted the bike fully upright, and cranked it.

She’d been on the back of a dirt bike a few times, growing up, and on an underpowered street bike, once. Neither compared to the sound and the feel of the Harley springing to life between the footpegs.

“Holy shit,” she breathed, before she could help herself.

Pongo must have heard, because he turned his head so the streetlight caught the baby-fine, blond prickles of his five o’clock shadow. “You good?” he called over the rumbling engine.

“Yeah.” She laced her fingers together over his lean stomach and squeezed until she felt her knuckles pop. “Let’s go.”

He couldn’t open up the throttle in the city the way he undoubtedly did on the road north, but even in stop-and-go downtown traffic, the Harley’s leashed power was impressive. Though she wasn’t piloting it, it madeherfeel powerful; like she had the ability to take off, or maneuver, or run somebody down if need be. It was a feeling unfamiliar to her, but one she thought she could get addicted to.

As he’d predicted, no one pulled them over, though they passed more than one patrol car.

A guy in a parka walking down the sidewalk tossed them a little two-fingered wave and Pongo threw one back.

“Friend of yours?” she asked in his ear.

“We keep in touch.”

When she’d first joined the force, she’d been impressed by the network of undercovers and CIs that kept the precincts informed of street activity…but had since learned it was nothing compared to the Dogs’ underground contacts. God only knew howe many “friends” Pongo had in this city.

Twenty minutes and far too many redlights later, Pongo turned into a jam-packed, chain-link-fenced parking lot next door to a black-painted building decked out in blue neon. The signage out front read Cool Down, and that uneasy, sinking feeling returned to her gut as he killed the engine and climbed off the bike.

“A club?” she asked, frowning. She could see bouncers at the door.

“Yeah. Now. Hold on.” He was still sitting, far leg pulled up to rest on the fuel tank so he could face her. He raked and arranged his curls with both hands, practiced movements that looked like old habit. “Before we go in, I wanna make sure you’ve got your head on straight.”

She passed back the helmet so she could fold her arms and give him an unimpressed look.

“This is a club, yeah. The kinda club where ladies get up on stage and–”

“It’s a strip club.”

“Yeah.” His brows lifted. “Can you handle that?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He made a face. “Look, sometimes women aren’t cool with…” He gestured toward the building. “All of that. I want you to be prepared, is all.”

“Pongo, I’m a professional,” she said, firmly. “Look at what I do for a living. You think some boobs are gonna knock me off my game?”

He shrugged and stood. “Okay. The girl we’re looking for is called April. April Showers when she’s on stage.” He slipped an arm around her waist and steered her out onto the sidewalk, hand riding low on her hip.

When she stiffened, he leaned to whisper in her ear. “If you’re not going in as a cop, you gotta look like we’re out for a fun night together, yeah?”

She sighed – but he was right. She forcibly relaxed her posture and leaned into his side, which felt like a bigger deal than it was. They’d slept together, for God’s sakes; what was a little clinging on a sidewalk?

There was no accounting for the way her stomach flipped when he patted her hip and murmured, “Atta girl.

“Hey, boys,” he greeted the bouncers at the door, and plucked at his hoodie so the dog stood out beneath the blue neon.

The two big-shouldered men nodded to one another, and motioned them through.

It became immediately apparent, once inside, that Cool Down wasn’t the sort of club who catered to high rollers. The dark couldn’t hide the dated, dingy booths and the smudges on the mirror-backed bar. It had been years since it was legal to smoke indoors, but the scent of old, stale cigarettes lingered, undercut with the sour notes of spilled liquor and sweat.

It was crowded, a sea of dark silhouettes seated around the catwalk and central stage, where a blonde in a patriotic G-string worked the pole halfheartedly to “Pour Some Sugar on Me.”

Melissa stood up on her tiptoes to be heard over the music. “That her?”

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