“Nah.” He smiled suddenly. “Go get your passport. We’re going to Tijuana for dinner.”
“What?” Had she heard him right?
“You got a passport?”
“Er, yes … Tijuana, for dinner?”
“Yeah, I have an errand to run for a club brother. He’s stuck on the toilet after a bad late-night snack.”
“And it can’t wait?”
“Nope.” He reached for his t-shirt, pulled it on, then slid his cut over the top. “Some things can’t wait, or rather, some people can’t wait.”
She studied him. Big and handsome with an edge of danger she just couldn’t resist, and the promise of a trip to Tijuana, somewhere she’d always dreamed of going. There was only one answer.
“I know this great place, not for tourists, for locals. Best tacos ever.” He grabbed her purse from the side and threw it her way. “You’ll love it.”
She caught it. “Well, if there are tacos.” She shrugged and smiled.
“The best. Come on, no time to lose. But you might wanna grab a jacket. It’ll be cool coming back on the bike in the dark.”
Ten minutes later, Leah was riding pillion toward Clement with her arms wrapped around Carter and her heart soaring. When had she ever felt so wild and free? She’d just had the best orgasm of her life and was now hitting the open road with her very own badass biker.
In a sudden bluster of enthusiasm for life, she spread her arms wide and whooped.
He laughed and accelerated.
“Hey!” Quickly, she gripped him again. Her stomach lurching and adrenaline filling her system.
Her old self felt like a distant memory. Gone were the power suits and the stacks of files she constantly buried herself in. Gone was the daughter who had to bend to the will of the mayor. Instead of seeing her mother’s sick, gaunt face, she had a lovely flash of an image of her mother healthy and happy and laughing.
She smiled and hugged Carter tighter as he took a hard left. The wind on her skin was so good. The roar of the engine the perfect anthem for her adventure. And Carter’s solid body the epitome of strength to give her the courage to fly.
After another minute, he slowed beside a one-story building. A surfboard store called Chilled Waves that appeared to be combined with a jet-ski repair shop. The window was full of sun-bleached boards and dusty models wearing faded wetsuits. The door was dark and closed. To the right, a high, solid fence stretched for fifty yards or so with large, padlocked gates in the center. A stars and stripes flag, a little ragged, fluttered lazily in the breeze.
The bike rolled to a stop and Carter thumped down his boots.
“Where are we?”
“The compound.”
“The compound? Where you live?”
“Yeah, me and a bunch of the crew. It’s easy.”
“And the shop?”
“It’s ours, it’s useful.”
Before she could ask more, the shop door pulled open. A guy in black leathers and a tattered cut strolled out. He had the last dregs of a cigarette hanging from his lips and smoke curled up to his shades and baseball cap that was turned back to front.
He strode over, not bothering to hide the Glock shoved into the front of his waistband.
Carter didn’t take his helmet off. “You got ’em, Razor?”
Razor looked left and right. His beard was thick with a few gray strands. He dug into an inside pocket of his cut. “Here.” He pulled out a folded brown envelope a couple of inches thick.
Carter took it and shoved it into his inner cut pocket.