Page 19 of Bad Attitude
I watch long enough for the footage to play again. I have to see myself. But there’s no doubting it, not with that headline and the way his body twitches under multiple impacts.
He pulled a weapon on a police roadblock.
Was that just pure stupidity? Or was he so against spending years in a steel box he’d rather be dead instead?
Hell, on that, I can sympathize with him.
But he’s dead, and the risk has gone. There’s nomention of clear leads of other suspects. No Yamaha fleeing the scene, no Honda CBR caught somewhere south. And if they had Cammy’s van, they’d be crowing.
We got away with it. Clean.
I shut the TV off, still in a daze. Then I strip out of my leathers, hanging them up to air, and take a much-deserved shower. The hot water works its way into tired muscles, and I brace a hand on the tiles, my head hanging as I stand there for ages.
Intense, pale blue eyes. Strong jaw. Shoulders to hang onto.
Jesus Christ. I need to get my head on straight. I am sonotdoing this again. Not with another man who’ll treat me like shit, until I wake up one morning and find him gone.
Or like Brandon, taking one of my friends with him. That double betrayal is still an open wound, three years on.
You going to be alone the rest of your life?
It’s not a helpful thought, but the short answer is yes. I’ve been half tempted to hook up with Tasha; she swings both ways, she might be up for it. Except the only appeal is that she’s not a man.
Before I know it, one hand has found its way to my breast, cupping, squeezing, flicking over my nipple. The other is between my legs, discovering just how wet I am. And it sure the hell isn’t Tasha I’m thinking of.
I stop, shutting the shower off in disgust, find a towel and dry. It’s late, I’m tired, and this isnotthetime to be thinking about this. Abouthim.
Some man I don’t know who now seems to be intertwined into my life.
The smart thing to do would be to go early to Kurt’s place and drop the bag off. Ride away before anyone else arrives. But since when have I been smart?
It’s a problem for tomorrow. Right now, I need sleep.
But I lie awake, despite the lateness. I tell myself it’s still adrenaline. Or the relief of Kawasaki being dead—couldn’t have happened to more of an asshole. No pangs of guilt there.
No, the guilt comes from the way my hand once more finds itself between my legs, and the voice I can’t get out of my head.
“Do you fuck the way you fight?”
God, I want to find out how he fucks. I really, really do.
It takes two orgasms and a wave of self-loathing before sleep finally finds me.
I wake to the sun streaming in, morning long here, and text messages.
One from Kurt, telling me the location of his new art unit, and confirming a 7 p.m. meet. The other is from my brother.
I’m guessing the fun on the news last night hasabsolutely nothing to do with you.
I pull on a robe and pad through into my living room, flicking on the TV as I make coffee. They’re not talking about the robbery, only the shooting. The robbery is just setting and flavor. That’s good; it means they have nothing else.
Listening with half an ear, I wait to hear them talk about suspects, bikes, vans, or evidence left at the scene. But it’s all noise. One throwaway line about the FBI’s LA field office assisting local law enforcement. Standard stuff. Not even a mention of what’s been stolen.
The backpack is visible from here, tucked safely under my bed. It was heavy. Whatever Kurt pulled from those vaults is…
Wait. No reports of stolen goods on Pablo’s body?
I pick up my phone, googling the news. Check one article. A second. A third. There’s nothing.
