Page 4 of Bad Attitude
Halfway to the door, a hand closes on my arm. I spin, helmet raised and ready to smash into the face of whoever hasdared.
I’m met with the pale-blue gaze of Fireblade. He’s a half-second away from getting a grand’s worth of Arai breaking that perfectly straight nose of his. But his grip isn’t tight, just insistent. His expression isn’t hostile, it’s interested.
I lift my helmet an inch higher, readying it, threatening him. There’s something in those cold eyes, but it’s not fear, or even concern. He seems totally indifferent as he searches my face. It’s unnerving, and I’m suddenly more conscious of his grip on my arm. His hand, my bare skin, tingling and raising goosebumps.
My skin has no business doing that.
“What?” I say aggressively, half to cover my own disquiet.
He still hasn’t said a word.
His eyes are beguiling, his stare so damn intense.
Fuck, Raven. Beguiling?
I tell myself I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. But it’s not true. The reality is I don’t like the way I’mrespondingto the way he’s looking at me. “Get your hand off me.”
His thumb moves, just slightly, against my arm. He drops his gaze to my mouth, then back up. “Do you fuck the way you fight?”
Dirty and brutal.
My brain supplies the words without any prompting, and my breath catches, heat pooling where it hasn’t in a long, long time.
I shrug my arm free of his grip and scowl back.
His mouth curls slowly on one side, full lips in contrast to the hard angles of the rest of him. Then he folds his arms, the leather of his jacket tightening over shoulders and biceps that aren't strangers to a gym.
And there he stands until I turn and walk out, feeling his eyes on me with every step.
Two
Raven
All goddamn weekend I stew over that encounter.
Not the Kawasaki baby. He’s not worth a second thought.
No, it’s the blue eyes.
Fireblade.
I don’t even know his name.
That near-perfect face. Brutally handsome like he’d look good dirty, look good tired, look good in bad light. No one has a right to look that good. It shouldn’t bepossible.
That intense stare. Watching me, so damn unruffled. Not even offering to defend me—not that I needed it.
And that line.
“Do you fuck the way you fight?”
Last night, Idreamedthat line. Today’s Sunday, and I’m cranky. More than usual. Poking around my one-bedroom apartment in Tujunga. Watching MotoGPdoesn’t help, and neither does going for a run, no matter how loud I turn my AirPods. ThenYou Look So Fineby Garbage comes up, and that shit isn’t appreciated, not one bit.
Good song, though.
My thoughts keep circling back to Fireblade.
I hate that it’s been so long I was almost tempted to take him up on his offer.
