Leigh

I DIDN’T HATE the dark. Not really. But driving down a two-lane road on the industrial outskirts of Dallas at 4:00 a.m. on a cold autumn morning was not on my list of Top 10 Fun Things To Do On The Job. At least I hadn’t been up all night putting out the warehouse fire. Nope. They waited to call me until I’d finally snuggled under my down comforter after being up most of the night at the scene of a suspicious house fire. I made a mental note to check my sarcasm at the crime scene tape once I got there. The guys wouldn’t appreciate it.

Fog swirled in front of my headlights and I wished, not for the first time, that I’d driven my POV instead of the department’s POS. Personally Owned Vehicles were infinitely better than Pieces Of Shit. At least mine was. My Toyota Highlander had fog lamps and four-wheel drive. The arson squad’s sedan was over ten years old and its headlights barely penetrated the dark.

A shadow darted across the road right in front of me. Animal. I slammed on the brakes, fought the vehicle as its tires grabbed the asphalt. A thump. The car shuddered. Tires lost traction as wheels locked. And then I was holding on for dear life as the POS bounced off the road, careened across the rough-grade shoulder while a kaleidoscope of light and dark spun around me. It stopped. Finally.

I took a breath. Slowly released the steering wheel and blood returned to my fingers. Had I hit the dog? The red Dallas Fire Department sedan listed to one side, nose down in the bar ditch. Unbuckling, I pushed the door open and leveraged myself out, stepped back about five feet and bit back a string of curse words. There was no way I’d be able to drive out the ditch.

I reached into the front seat to snag my handheld radio and the door banged against the back of my thighs. Ow! This time, I said all those curse words aloud. No one was around to hear. I should have been on the fire scene twenty minutes ago. The guys from Station 51 had been standing around in the creepy fog waiting for me. Before I could radio Dispatch, the roar of a big motorcycle echoed in the miasma. Moving further from the roadbed, I watched the ghostly bike appear, roar past, and then disappear.

Except it didn’t. The motorcycle reappeared through the misty dark, driving the wrong way back toward me on the shoulder. As an arson investigator, I’m cleared to carry a sidearm but guns are not my thing. I always counted on my colleagues and the cops for backup if there was a situation where a weapon might be needed.

I was totally regretting that decision now.

The guy tossed his leg over his Harley and stalked toward me. He was six feet four inches and 230 pounds of do whatever the hell he wanted. His dark, shaggy hair had been combed by the wind. His eyes, color to be determined, were hooded. Fog drifted between us, almost as thick as smoke and then he was there, suddenly, feet braced, massive arms crossed over his chest, black leather jacket stretched to capacity.

“Having trouble?”

Great. The guy was a master of the understatement, not to mention that if his name was Trouble, I wouldn’t mind having some. Wait. What was I thinking? I flicked one hand toward the car. “You could say that.”

His gaze raked over me—down, up, down, then it zeroed in on my chest for an uncomfortable moment before coming to rest on my face. I’d pulled on a pair of very serviceable coveralls, black combat-style boots, and a department baseball cap when I rolled out of bed. Sexy, for sure. Not.

“You a cop?”

“No. Fire department.”

“No station out this way.” He stepped closer.

I backed up. “I think I hit a dog.” I wanted to give myself a head slap. Talk about a non-sequitur.

 

 

Smoke

THERE WAS NO thinking about it. Her front bumper had clipped me and it took real focus not to limp as I approached. I resisted rubbing my thigh despite the burning ache. She was really something, even hiding in those shapeless navy coveralls. My nose detected the sweet-cherry residue from a house fire and I could read her patches even in the semi-dark. Dallas Fire Department. Arson squad. Fuck.

She raised her chin, pretending she wasn’t jumpy. The stink of scalded milk curled around the cherry wood. Yup. I made her nervous. Good. I knew where she was headed. I’d just left there. I needed to find out how good she was at her job.

“What’s your name?”

She crossed her arms over a very nice rack. “Sergeant Daniels.”

Smart ass. I liked that in my women. Even if she was the investigator on this fire, I was definitely gonna make her mine for the duration.

“What’s your first name?”

“None of your business.”

“Can I call you None for short?”

“Smart ass.”

Yeah, takes one to know one. She’d muttered it under her breath but I’m a Wolf. I hear better than the average bear and a hellava lot better than a human.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What’s your name?”

“Smoke.”

“What kind of name is that?”

“My kind of name.”

I caught her studying the patches on my cut and considered turning around so she could see my full patch. I’m a Nightrider, out of our original chapter in Kansas City, but I ride all over so my bottom rocker says Nomad. I work directly for the Russian, our national president. He’s the one who bestowed my road name. Anymore, that’s the only name I need. My existence ended and my real life started the day I patched in to the club.

“Is that like a nickname?”

“No. It’s my road name.”

“Road name. So…you do belong to one of those motorcycle gangs.” She sneered, lip curled, nose crinkled. Like a cat trying to look all tough.

“We aren’t a gang. We’re a club.” We were more but I wasn’t about to discuss brotherhood or pack with her, no matter how good she smelled and how fuckable she looked.

“Look, I’m en route to a fire scene. You’re wasting my time.”

I leaned to peer around her, gave her a look. That heap in the ditch wasn’t going anywhere except onto a rollback wrecker.

“You won’t get anywhere in a hurry in that piece of shit. You broke the rear axle.”

She huffed out a breath hard enough it ruffled her bangs under that ball cap. I pointed to her radio. “Call a wrecker. I’ll give you a ride to your scene.”

Sergeant None of Your Business Daniels worked her mouth like she wanted to form words. None came out but those lips sure put ideas into my head. My dick liked those ideas. A lot.

I gave her about a minute, then turned around and walked away. “Suit yourself.”

Took her five seconds to yell, “Wait!”

Keeping my back to her, I did. I heard her rummaging around in the wrecked car. She called her dispatch, using the typical radio speak cops and first responders liked so much. As soon as she said she was leaving the car and heading on to the scene, I started walking. At my bike, I swung a leg over, kick-started it, and waited. She had a backpack slung over one shoulder and was chewing her lips. Damn if my dick and balls didn’t want to come out to play.

“I got places to be, and it ain’t out here in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere. Get on the bike, babe.”

“I’m not your babe.”

“Ain’t my sergeant either. Name, babe.”

“Leigh.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard. Get on, hang on.”

She did.