Page 7 of Desired By Diesel
I park the bike in my driveway and sit there for a minute, helmet in my hands. The desert air is cool, carrying that particular stillness that only happens at night. I can hear crickets somewhere in the scrub. A dog barking a few streets over.
And then I see it.
The BMW.
Black, parked three houses down, tucked between streetlights where the shadows are deepest. Same car. Same plates. I didn't notice it when I pulled in — too focused on getting home — but now that I'm looking, it's obvious.
Someone's watching her house.
I stay on my bike, not moving, letting my eyes adjust to the dark. I can't see inside the car from here, but I can tell it's occupied. The slight shift of weight when someone moves. The faint glow of a phone screen, there and then gone.
Amateur. A professional would know better than to check his phone in a dark car. The light gives him away every time.
I could go over there. Knock on the window. Have a conversation about why it's a bad idea to sit outside a woman's house at night. But that would tip my hand, let him know someone's paying attention. Right now, he thinks he's invisible. That's an advantage I'm not ready to give up.
Instead, I wait. Watch. Note the time, the position, how long he sits there.
Because when Ryan Mercer finally makes a move, I'm going to be ready.
I head inside, but I don't go to bed. I sit in my living room with the lights off, watching through the window. Forty minutes later, the BMW pulls away, headlights cutting through the dark as it turns the corner and disappears.
I stay up another hour, just to be sure.
The next morning, I'm working on the bike again.
It doesn't need work. Not really. But it gives me something to do with my hands, and it gives me an excuse to be outside. To watch. To notice.
Gracie's car is in her driveway, which means she's home. The kid — Amelia — is at school by now.
I'm elbow-deep in the engine when I hear her front door open.
I don't look up, but I track her movement in my peripheral vision — down the porch steps, across the yard, heading toward her car. She's dressed for work, maybe. Nice shirt, jeans that fit her well. Hair pulled back in a ponytail.
She pauses by her car and looks over at me.
I give it a beat, then glance up. Casual. Like I just noticed her standing there.
"Morning," I say.
"Morning." She's got her keys in her hand, fidgeting with them. "I wanted to say thanks again. For yesterday. The groceries."
"No problem."
"And sorry about Amelia. The whole... window thing." Her cheeks go pink. "She has no filter."
"Kids usually don't."
"Still. It was embarrassing."
I set down my wrench and straighten up, wiping my hands on a rag. "Nothing to be embarrassed about."
"Easy for you to say. You weren't the one being outed as a window creeper by your seven-year-old."
The corner of my mouth twitches. "Fair point."
She smiles, and something shifts in her face. The tension eases, just a little. She's pretty when she's not scared. Really pretty. Full mouth, dark eyes, the kind of curves that make those jeans look like a personal challenge.
Don't go there.
