“You’re being presumptuous that there’s going to be a later.”
“You put my face in a headlock between your legs this morning and begged me not to stop, and two seconds ago you called me Aric James. I’m pretty sure there’ll be a later.”
AJ had this gritty, almost angry confidence that was most likely mistaken as arrogance by anyone who couldn’t see past it to the raw vulnerability he hid beneath the surface.
“Move back,” he repeated.
“So I’m supposed to ride bitch?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you are my bitch.”
Jillian laughed, a lot. “I love when you sweet talk me. It makes me very wet for you.” It wasn’t a lie. Pathetic? Maybe. She relinquished her spot by scooting back.
He hopped on.
“Have you ever driven a motorcycle before?”
He brought it to a roaring start and had them zipping out of Peaceful Woods in a matter of seconds. She had her answer. It felt oddly reminiscent of his tongue dragging along a certain area of her body earlier that morning—controlled, arousing, and irresistibly sexy.
AJ gave her a tour of the city beyond what she’d received on her “date” with Cage. She felt like a tourist. Omaha wasn’t home. She could live there for the next fifty years and it would never be home. Her home … her heart would always be in San Francisco.
They chased the sunset back to Peaceful Woods two hours later. AJ parked in her garage. Even after he killed the engine, she held on to him.
“Are you asleep?” he asked without making any sudden movement.
Smart guy.
“Mmm … no, but you feel perfect hugged to my chest.”
He peeled her arms off his waist. She groaned then slid off the back.
“You going to win me a new car too?” He gestured to her Mercedes.
“Will it earn a more favorable opinion of my job from you?” She pulled off her helmet.
“Not likely.”
“Then I think my next bonus will go to Jackson. He supports my profession.”
“I doubt it.”
“Don’t. He chose it.”
The pained please-tell-me-you’re-bullshitting-me look was worth revealing that minor detail that wasn’t intended to ever be shared.
“You both need to be committed.”
She snaked her hands up his back, resting her forehead on his chest. “Shh … don’t tell anyone. I don’t want to scare off Brooke and her family when they come next week.”
He pulled away. “What are you talking about?”
“Cage’s game … next week.”
He narrowed his eyes for a moment then nodded, pulling her back into his hold. “His game … next week.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Day
Jessica returned to San Francisco with fifteen-hundred dollars, a medal, and the biggest motivation ever to overcome her issues. In true Mr. Stuffy Pants fashion, Luke insisted they keep up their arrangement: cleaning and counseling.
“Miss Day.” Luke smiled while holding open the door to his condo.
They hadn’t talked since returning from the race. Not even their newfound relationship could distract from the post-triathalon coma they fell into, sleeping for almost eighteen hours straight.
“Jones,” she reached for his neck, craving his touch.
“No, no, no…” he dodged her advance “…work then play.”
Her jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”
“Deadly.” He turned, walking toward the bedroom.
“Did you not say you were madly in love with me?”
“I did and I am.” He turned into his bedroom and continued to the closet.
The reaffirmation gave her a giddy shiver. “Just one kiss.”
His unexpected one-eighty degree turn had her bumping into his chest. Chanel No. 69 poisoned her thoughts as he looked down at her. “It could never be just one kiss.” Those dark blue eyes held so much promise, so much expectation.
“Fine. But I don’t want to do any chores.”
“Why not?”
“Because it will distract me from what I’m going to tell you.
Luke leaned back against his closet door, hands in his back pockets. “What are you going to tell me?”
Her eyes locked to his. “Everything.”
*
Jessica and Claire had been friends since the first day of kindergarten. They were ketchup sisters since Claire was too scared to poke her finger to be certifiable blood sisters. Claire nearly passed out when she got her first period, and she wore clip-on earrings because the thought of having her ears pierced made her queasy and ashen in the face.
It was all kinds of fucked-up karma that she died in the bloodiest way possible—one slow cut at a time. By the final cut, the one that sliced through her femoral artery, Edwin Harvey sealed his fate. Something shifted in the universe, an imbalance that had to be set right. An eye for an eye. His death would be cataclysmic and at the hands of Jessica Day.
“You’re next.” Edwin tossed the bloodied knife on the card table and wiped the remainder of Claire’s life from his hands with an old rag.
Trigger cursed when he discovered their cocaine stash had been depleted. “Eddy, I’m going out.” He grabbed his phone. “She’s mine when I get back. You’ve had yours.” He smirked at Jessica.