Page 15 of Courting Danger

Chapter 5

Danger

“Alright, enough sulking; get your ass out here,” Pope demanded, fist beating against the door at a more rapid pace than the beat of the Iron Maiden song Danger had blaring from the smart speaker.

“I’ve got work to do,” Danger grumbled, attempting to ignore the man, which he should have known wouldn’t work; it never did when it came to Pope.

“Bullshit, Mark already told me the claims had been submitted.”

“Doesn’t mean there isn’t other shit that needs tending to.”

“Oh, so now you expect me to believe you intend to become a regular paper pusher?” Pope snarled. “Save your breath. I’m not buying it.”

“Was there something you needed?”

“You to put the goddamn ice cream bar down and get the hell out of that office,” Pope declared. “Thought Kat cut you off from those?”

“She did. Are you planning on telling her I snuck some in here?”

“What do you think?” Pope asked.

Glaring, Danger silently finished the bar he’d been eating, stood, and grabbed his jacket.

“Wise choice,” Pope said as he pulled the door shut behind them.

“It’s not like you gave me one,” Danger grumbled.

“Oh, I did,” Pope said as Danger followed him up the hall. “You could have stayed in there, in which case your next visitor would have been Kat, since she’s sick of seeing Roan up at the bar fetching all your meals.”

“Needed something for him to do.”

“More bullshit.”

“Where are we going?” Danger asked when, instead of rounding the corner at the end of the hall and leading him to the bar, Pope headed for the door that led to the parking lot, boots crunching over gravel as he headed for the row of bikes.

Instead of answering, Pope paused beside his machine and eyed Danger up and down. “To get your mind right, now get on.”

Danger did as he was told, straddling the machine behind Pope, who grabbed his arm and tugged it around him. He didn’t kick it into gear until Danger relaxed and pressed his cheek against Pope’s shoulder.

Wind therapy was wind therapy, whether he was doing the driving or not. The scent of Pope’s leather was the same as it had been when Danger rode with him last. Sea salt, whiskey, and the cherry cigars Pope occasionally smoked with a glass of brandy. He sunk into familiar memories of Pope swirling the amber liquid around in the glass, smoke curling lazily around his head, as he shared some bit of history he’d come across with Danger, Jethro Tull on the record player because Pope refused to replace his old man’s vinyl collection with CDs.

“Wouldn’t be the same sound,” Pope said, eyes heavy lidded as he basked in the slight raspiness emanating from the player.

“No, it would be cleaner,” Danger insisted.

“Clean doesn’t always mean good.”

No, no it didn’t. The fifteen years between them might as well have been fifty back then. Pope had always been an old soul with a burning appreciation for the evolution of music, motorcycles, and surfing. Somewhere along the line, he’d fallen in love with folklore too and filled Danger’s head with stories of the Boo Hag and the Maco Lights. Danger lay sprawled on the rug beside Pope’s chair, shivering when Pope grazed the back of his neck as he carded his fingers through Danger’s hair.

Back then, he hadn’t been able to appreciate the stillness of those moments or the way his mind had drifted into a peaceful haze without the aid of weed or alcohol. It wasn’t until he saw the house looming on the horizon that he realized he’d been seeking that in the weed and ice cream bars he’d been tearing through back in his office.

The last time he’d been here…

Danger sat up straighter, already pulling away from Pope as he drove the bike into the garage and parked it beside the classic Plymouth Road Runner Superbird he only brought out for car shows and the SUV he used on days when it rained too hard for him to ride in all weather gear.

“Thought we were riding,” Danger said when Pope killed the engine.

“We were. Now we’re here.”