Page 74 of Brox Boar

He lifts a brow. “What?”

I huff and follow him toward the bike. The man who delivered it is already gone. The bike stands there like it’s been summoned.

Brox checks it quickly, hand on the handlebar, eyes scanning the area. Then he turns to me.

“You’ve been on one before?” he asks.

“No.” I say, arms crossed, irritated by how openly he’s flirting. I bet she’ll be delivering those bags herself.

He ignores my feelings, steps closer, and lowers his voice. “Hold on to me. Don’t fight the turns. If you lean the wrong way, you’ll make it harder.”

Immediately, I’m handed a helmet. “This is yours.”

I turn it over in my hands, trying to figure out how it goes on.

“Here, let me help you.” He settles it onto my head, snug and secure, then taps the top. “You’re ready.”

Then he fits on his helmet and swings a leg over the motorbike. He settles with ease, and he looks back at me.

I climb on behind him, awkward at first. The seat is narrow. I place my hands on his waist and immediately feel the solid line‌ under the fabric. His waistcoat fits him too well. His back is a wall.

“Closer,” he says.

I scoot forward. My knees press against the sides of his thighs. My chest brushes his back.

He reaches behind without looking, guiding my grip tighter around his waist before letting go.

The engine turns over, deep and smooth, and then we’re moving.

We leave the airport with the wind cutting through us and the city opening up ahead. Chicago feels different from Miami in every way–less heat, less color, more steel. The streets stretch wider, the buildings are taller and the air is sharper.

Brox rides as if he’s done this here a hundred times. With confidence, and clean movements. No jerks, no panic, even when a car cuts too close.

I cling tighter automatically when he weaves through an opening.

He doesn’t speak, yet I feel him listening. As we pass a cluster of people waiting at a crosswalk, I catch a flash of the river–gray and thick, carrying the city’s reflection.

My arms tighten around Brox’s waist, not just for balance. Being this close to him feels too intimate for how little I understand what’s happening.

After a few minutes, I lean forward and raise my voice near his ear. “Do you even know where we’re going?”

He answers without turning his head. “Yes.”

Brox makes a turn, smooth and controlled, then speaks again. “I got an address. It’s where the mafia hangs.”

My stomach dips. “And you think they’ll just… talk?”

Brox’s laugh is quiet and humorless. “No.”

We ride deeper into the city, away from the shiny places and into streets that feel older. Fewer tourists. More shadows.

Brox slows as we approach a block where the streetlights flicker slightly even in daylight. He turns down a side street and stops in front of a building that looks ordinary if you don’t know what to look for.

A bar sign glows above a door. Brox kills the engine. He sits still for a beat, scanning. Then he looks back at me. “Go in.”

I blink. “What?”

“Go inside,” he repeats, calm. “I’ll park it and follow.”