Page 46 of Tortured Eyes
Great, so even more chance of an accident going wrong.
He settles down into position and then kicks the bike into action. The purr of the engine reverberates through every part of me and immediately sets my frayed nerves to calm. This is familiar; this is comfort. I just need to see past the issue of Logan becoming another familiar thing.
Pulling out of the property, he proceeds to rev the throttle and test the bike’s handling capabilities within the first minute of being out on the road. I have no choice but to hold on tightly, pressing myself up against the muscled contours of his back. My hair whips around in the wind, unrestrained and at the mercy of the elements without a helmet. I can’t deny the rush I feel, and for a moment, if I only focus on the cold air, the blur of the scenery and the sound of the engine, I can forget that the last few days were ever part of my life. I close my eyes against the onslaught, trying to stave off the cold tears dripping down my cheeks. For once they're nothing to do with fear; they're to do with speed and wind chill.
My arms creep tighter around him, every inch of me falling into this time with him, as I forget the terror and fear for my life, and the damage my body has taken. Where the hell my head’s at, I don't know. It still happened, still hurts, but these roads and this power beneath us provide a connection. It makes me question how we found ourselves on opposite sides of the law. That very thought brings me back to the fact that I'm also still a hostage, still in trouble, and I wince at my own interest as I feel his hand lower mine to his cock as we swing around a slower corner.
He’s hard through the leather, rigid because of me or the bike. Or both. I know the sensations that riding fast generates, the adrenalin mixes in the blood and gives you an almighty rush. Speed and risk are a tantalising cocktail.
No.
I have to keep my thoughts on track, and I pull my hand away. There’s nothing happening here, no fucked-up romantic notion between us.
My eyes blink, and I press my cheek against his back. I guess I could take the advantage and throw myself off the bike. It would be a risk, but I’d have the upper hand. He won’t know what’s happened until it’s done. But I’d then have to outrun him until I could find help.
Time ticks on and I jump back and forth between the two options. Wait to see what Logan does, or jump. The choices are fucking terrible. And I'm still damn well enjoying this ride, finally feeling more like myself out on the road as I pull in scents of leather and fumes.
We’ve passed few houses or buildings of any kind for the last few miles, and with not knowing the exact location we're in, or where we’re heading, it’s a gamble on what the best course of action is. After about twenty minutes, Logan eases off the throttle enough for me to relax my grip. He pulls into a small clearing off the side of the road, surrounded by trees. When he pulls up to a stop, I don’t move to jump off, but wait.
“Time to get off.” He twists around to look at me, although I can’t see his eyes behind his dark glasses.
“Why? What are we doing here?”
“I want a smoke. And you’re way too fucking close to me. I can’t concentrate on the bike with you so close.”
“Want me up front? You could try holding onto me instead."
“No fucking chance, Red. Just get off the goddamn bike,” he snaps, barking his order. I couldn’t feel a gun or anything else concealed around him when I held on to him. That doesn’t mean he isn’t armed. It just puts me back at a disadvantage.
As if my own head isn't doing that enough already.
I swing my leg and walk a few steps out of his reach. “Is it something you’re taught when you’re young? Like an initiation ceremony? How to be a complete asshole. Must pass before you’re allowed to use the Cane family name?”
He takes a seat on a rock, his eyes looking over the view. “Red, I’m not in the mood. Give it a rest," he says quietly.
“And what mood is that? Because right now, I’ve no fucking clue what you’re about, Logan. You talk the talk. But I’ve seen nothing of what the precious name suggests of you.” This might be the worst plan in the history of bad plans, but right now, it’s what I’ve got. Logan seems… off, somehow. Like he’s not sure what he’s doing himself. If I can exploit that, throw him off, then I can take my chance.
He pulls out a cigarette from the pocket of his leathers and lights up. The smell of smoke seeps into the air, and I watch him inhale the fumes deep into his lungs, a sigh following.
“You, Bryce McCarthy, seem to think you’ve got the criminal world all figured out. You don't know shit about it.”
His voice is low and controlled, and the change makes all the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. “You’ve seen the world through your eyes only. You’ve put your cases together and followed what’s right in front of your nose, no thought for the bigger picture.”
“That’s my job, Logan. I investigate violent crimes. I’ve seen what people are capable of.” He snarls at that, a throaty grunt showing his disdain.
“Doubt you’ve ever really looked at someone, a killer perhaps, and seen your worst fears reflected back in their eyes.” He stands from his position near the bike, stretching his neck and then turning to face me. "You probably put all the wrong guys away."
“I’ve put plenty of criminals behind bars. Murderers, rapists and abusers.”
“But you’ve not been able to get anywhere near Cane. You don’t even know how far we reach or why we reach the way we do. You’re just holding on to the dying wish of your father to complete the cases he had on his conscience and left you to clean up. And you haven't even tried." The look he levels at me is thick with contempt.
Screw him. All this I've been through and he dares…
"A conversation at the bar with me, followed by a conversation with my uncle and you suddenly think you know all about us?” With an arrogant toss of his hand, he flicks the cigarette towards me.
“I’ve seen the destruction on the streets because of you. The corruption, the bribes, the missing people and drugs. What more do I need? It’s all for your personal gain. You profit off other people’s misery to line your pockets, using the blackmail of innocent people to build your fortress so you’re never in the spotlight." I take a step in, my fists clenched at my sides. "You and your family, and the other people who killed Nate, are the criminals people have to stand up to, that I have to stand up to. The people of Chicago deserve better.”
He closes the small distance between us so quickly I half falter, but no. I'll go toe to toe now I'm ready. I'll get so close I can feel him over my skin again, this time for wholly different reasons.
