When Jacinda stepped out of her shower, Zoë sat primly on the grey mat, worried and waiting, as always. Her cat did not understand why she would voluntarily stand in water spray.

“I’m okay, Zozo. No worries.” Following their daily shower ritual, she held her hand down, and Zoë rubbed her tortoiseshell head against her palm. Satisfied that her person had survived the ordeal intact, and eager to put some distance between herself and the devil spray, she mewed prettily and sauntered through the open door.

Jacinda dried off and wrapped the towel around her chest. She used another towel to squeeze the water from her hair and then wound that around her head.

Wiping the steam from the bathroom mirror, she stared hard at her reflection. Her mouth was sex-swollen, and her cheeks and chin shone red with beard burn. She brushed her fingertips over the her face, letting the sting revive the memory of his mouth on hers, his beard rasping over her skin as his body thrust on her, in her. Hearing the echo of his grunts and gasps, her body shuddered hard in remembered pleasure, and she dropped her hands and gripped the edge of her sink. Jesus.

Neil ‘Apollo’ Armstrong, chiseled god of the Brazen Bulls MC. He was trouble with a capital MC. But holy hell, she missed his touch already.

She’d woken before light and watched him sleep, the glow of the weird red lamp still making the room like something from a Dario Argento film, and yet even in that light he managed to be perfect.

Even his scars were appealing. The burn scar on his left arm, the thick gouge of a scar on his right bicep, a few others on his chest and belly—they didn’t mar his appearance but enhanced it. Made him more than a pretty face. Made him a man with a story.

He was smart. She’d seen it in his eyes, heard it in his answers. Observant and keen. And decent, he was decent. Hadn’t pulled a boy bitch fit when she’d told him what she’d needed, hadn’t fought her when what she’d needed had been to take over.

And the attention he’d paid. He’d known how deep, how fast, how far. He’d known when to go and when to stop. He’d read her like she’d come with closed-captioning.

Oh God, the feel of him, strong and confident, gentle and responsive, all over her. The sinewy strength of his body—Those arms! That chest! That ass! That cock!—on her, in her, under her, all around her.

Zoë made one of her politely questioning mews, and Jacinda opened her eyes. She’d been so caught up in the sense memory of the night before that she’d sunk down to a crouch, still gripping the sink edge. Taking a deep breath to clear her head and body, she stood.

This right here was why she’d left his perfect self sleeping, with only an arch little note for goodbye, and why she could never see him again. She was way too attracted, had enjoyed him way too much. The dude was completely fucking intoxicating, and she’d get stupid about him. Already, she was stupid about him.

It was much better to leave it at the meaningless fuck it was intended to be. If he was hurt because she’d left in the dark, that was all to the good. He wouldn’t seek her out if he thought she was a bitch.

She roped in her head before it picked up a fresh memory from their night together. She needed to find something to keep her mind busy today.

After she dried her hair, she dressed in bike shorts and an oversized tee. Until Sunday dinner with her folks, she had no plans to leave the house, so she made herself comfortable, poured herself a glass of sweet tea, snagged a couple of shortbread cookies, and went into her office.

Zoë had already made herself comfortable, stretching her dark, caramel-mottled body over the top of the white bookcases, soaking up an early afternoon sunbeam. Jacinda gave her a quick stroke, then sat at her desk—oh, ah, she definitely felt the exertions of the night before—and set her glass of tea and stack of cookies on the cover of the most recent Sue Grafton paperback.

Okay, yeah, it was a bit on the nose for a PI to like novels about PIs, but Kinsey Millhone was the shit.

She woke up her PC and started an online connection, irritated at the sound of the modem. She’d convinced her father to install an expensive Ethernet connection at the office, but here at home, in her apartment complex, she didn’t have that option. So she scowled at the tower while the modem made its racket.

Online at last, she checked her email. Nothing but spam and a stupid joke from Ryan. She went out onto the Web and checked in on a couple of boards, to see if there was anything interesting going on in Geekland.

She was wasn’t hacker by any means, but she had a good grasp of how computers worked and how things moved through cyberspace. She’d paid attention as Ryan had caught the bug while they were in school, and she’d watched him learn. He was a hacker, and he had lots of hacker friends. Those kind of people were good friends for a PI to have. They’d taught her a few tricks, they were good for leads on new jobs, and they helped her out when she needed to dig deeper than she herself could for information.

Cyberspace was quiet on this Sunday afternoon, so she wandered aimlessly around for a while, reading the news, doing a couple of crosswords, trying hard not to do the thing she really wanted to do.

She nibbled at her cookies, which were breakfast and lunch both, and sipped at her tea. She played some Everquest for a while. When even that couldn’t hold her interest, she succumbed.

Back on the Web, she struck a few keys and slid in a back door Ryan had made for her that let her into the Oklahoma DMV database.

Just to satisfy this itch of curiosity, she told herself, so she could stop thinking about him. She didn’t need to do anything about it.

Neil Steven Armstrong, born July 21, 1969—he’d be thirty in less than a month. Blond, blue eyes, height 6’1”, weight 190. His photo looked like a mug shot, but then everybody’s driver’s license photo looked like a mug shot. Jacinda’s own photo looked like she’d dropped in to renew her license on her way back from a two-week bender.

His hair and beard had been longer when he’d renewed his license. She liked them short. Showed off the perfect, angular symmetry of his face better.

He lived in a decent neighborhood in South Tulsa. She hopped on realtor.com to see if she could get a sense of the homes on or around his street, but there wasn’t anything for sale within a few blocks of him.

Another few keystrokes, and she’d learned that he owned that house free and clear. Bought it with cash a little more than a year earlier. Back on the open page of the DMV, she checked his history and saw that he’d lived in apartments before that—and he’d lived on a rural route in Harris when he’d first gotten his license at sixteen. Thirty seconds of research pegged Harris as a one-stoplight town in southeastern Oklahoma.

Got his motorcycle designation at age twenty. No history of points on his license. Ever. Had he never had a traffic violation? Not speeding, not even a parking ticket? Interesting.

He owned a 1993 Harley Davidson FXDWG Wide Glide and a 1973 Dodge Charger. Nice. How had he managed not to get a ticket riding so much horsepower?

That was as deep as she could go on her own. Ryan could find his criminal record—she assumed he had one—and Jacinda seriously considered calling her buddy and asking him to dig. He would, but he’d lecture first, and she wasn’t in the mood for that.

Actually, this was ridiculous. She was stalking the guy, and she had no right. Why did she need all this information, anyway? What did it matter where he lived, or what he did, or who he was? They’d had a good night. A great night. The end. Omega.

Had that been a shitty note to leave? At the time, it had seemed cute. Whimsical. A little hint of sweet to blunt the blade of her slipping out in the dark. A reminder of the silly banter that had risen up between them, him calling her ‘Catwoman’ and her making Greek mythology cracks.

Now it felt shitty, though. Really shitty. Fuck. She crossed her arms on the desk and dropped her head onto them.

Zoë jumped onto her lap and head-butted her chin.

“Am I a bitch, Zozo?”

Heedless of her turmoil, her cat let the question go unanswered. She curled up on Jacinda’s lap and kneaded her thigh, purring.

––––––––

~oOo~

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Downtown Hand2Hand was, as always on a Sunday afternoon, crowded as hell, reeking of the mingled sweat and testosterone of the overwhelmingly male population, but Jacinda had claimed one of the heavy bags for her own. The couple of guys who’d had the audacity to ask her if they could have next had gotten a glare that answered their query decisively.

The bag was her favorite workout equipment, by far. Free weights were boring as hell. The stationary bike, the treadmill, the Nordic—any kind of equipment that pretended to be something it wasn’t—was the most boring of all. If she wanted to run, she’d run on the road, not in place, staring at a wall—or worse, at some blather on the television.

But the bag—that was incredibly satisfying. It was cardio and strength, footwork and strategy, all in one and had the monumental additional benefit of aggression abatement. Jacinda could punch her feelings out on a big sack of sand and feel cleansed and calm when she was done. The only thing better was actually punching someone.

In fact, sometimes, when she was in a particularly bad mood, she imagined that the bag was someone she really wanted to punch in real life but couldn’t.

Unable to get her restlessness under control at home, she’d given up after an hour or so and gone to the gym. A workout never failed to calm her mind and focus her thoughts to a pinpoint.

Of course, her thoughts were still all about the Greek god who’d fucked her stupid—and vice versa—the night before, but now, at least, they moved in a straight line and she could sort them out, deal with them, file them away, and move on.

He was hot, yes. Smart with a side of witty, yes. A seemingly not-horrible guy, yes. A fantastic fuck, yes. Arrogant with a side of conceited, also yes. An outlaw biker, yep. Possibly a killer, yeah—at the very least, he’d been around gunfire; that gouge in his arm was a bullet scar, she’d bet her PI license on that.

Jacinda didn’t wonder how an outlaw could be a not-horrible guy. That was easy. If he was a killer, though? Those didn’t necessarily add up so well. Of course, she didn’t know if he was. Maybe he’d been an unarmed innocent when a bullet had cut a path through his bicep. She’d have to see his criminal record—and even then, she might not know. If the Bulls didn’t get away with most of the shit they did, there wouldn’t be a Brazen Bulls MC.

It was that school fire last year that hung her up. Some poor slob, an assistant principal, had been killed in that fire. Just a regular guy with a regular job, getting burned alive because he’d happened to work at a school that the Street Hounds’ leader had opened.

Everybody in and around law enforcement knew the Bulls had burned that school and killed that guy. They’d been unable to prove it so far, but nobody doubted the truth even so.

What did all this matter? Why was she so hung up on whether Apollo was a good guy? Why was she making one of her stupid pro/con lists over him? One-night stand. Inconsequential fun.

Because it hadn’t been inconsequential. She liked the guy. The third and final time they’d fucked had been slow and gentle and far too intimate, far too much deep staring into each other’s eyes.

And that was why she’d left the way she had, wasn’t it? Running for safety before she’d fallen for him? If, that was, she’d made it in time.

Come on, Jacinda. Pull yourself together.

She went at the bag in a fury, slamming a barrage of punches and kicks all at once, shutting her stupid head up altogether.

As she wore herself out and hugged the bag, a gruff voice behind her called out, “Hey, Jacinda! Got a minute?”

Wiping sweat from her eyes, she let go of the bag and turned. Benny, the owner, stood with a harried-looking middle-aged soccer mom and the skinny teen boy who was obviously her kid. Not the usual clientele for the Downtown Hand2Hand Center.

Still trying to catch her breath, she stepped off the thin mat and set her hands on her hips. “What’s up?”

Benny left the suburban duo to wait and came up to her alone. “Can you talk to them about how Krav Maga could help the kid?”

She returned her attention to Mom and Junior. On this second glance, they both looked like they’d been captured and taken behind enemy lines. “They get referred?” Maybe they’d come from one of the domestic abuse shelters that referred people to her self-defense class.

But Benny shook his head. “Nah. Came in on their own. Kid ain’t said shit, but Mom wants him to learn to defend himself. Lookit him. I bet that kid ain’t been left in peace to eat his lunch since his first day in kindygarden. Now Mom’s freaked out about all the hardcore guys in here. All she sees in these guys is more bullies. But she saw you and wants to talk to you.”

Jacinda glanced at the caged clock on the wall. She was due at her parents’ house for Sunday dinner in less than an hour, and she’d wanted to get in a hot tub soak before she showered.

“Yeah, I’ll talk to them.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

She walked over with Benny, and he introduced her.

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~oOo~

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Jacinda went into the kitchen and kissed her mother’s cheek.

Her mother pushed her off with a gentle elbow. “Ugh. You stink!”

“Sorry. Came straight from the gym. I meant to take a shower, but I got derailed. I’ll jump in upstairs before dinner. There anything I can do? Where’s Dad?” She put the bottle of white wine she’d brought in the refrigerator.

Her mother slid a Pyrex dish full of baked potato casserole into the top oven, then leaned back on the counter. “Working backward point by point: Your father is in the back yard, fussing with the vegetables. Showering is the biggest help you could do for all of us before we share a meal together. What derailed you?”

“A kid came into the gym with his mom. He’s getting tormented in school, and they wanted to know about self defense. Benny asked me to talk to them, show the kid around a little bit.”

Her mother quirked up an arched eyebrow at her. “Is he going to pay you for selling his gym to people who walk in off the street, or is this another thing you’re doing because you can’t say no?”

She was a beautiful woman, Barbara Durham, but in ways a lot of men found intimidating. Six feet tall—four inches taller than Jacinda—and with a body people used to call shapely, she had the same dark hair and eyes Jacinda had, and the same tendency to snark and skepticism. Even in khaki shorts and a loose Oxford-cloth shirt, like today, her pedicured feet bare and her hair held back with a banana clip, she looked like she’d stepped out of a Noël Coward play.

Bill Durham, on the other hand, was entirely average. He was Jacinda’s height, slightly balding, and, in a development of the past couple of years, a little paunchy. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy—he had kind, dark eyes and a notch in his chin—but he wasn’t remarkable. Lots of people wondered how they’d gotten together and how they’d made it work. Sometimes, they wondered aloud, right in front of her parents, which put them on Jacinda’s list of people she imagined while she worked out.

“I say no just fine, Mom. There wasn’t any reason to say no to this kid. He just got out of the hospital. They kicked him so hard they ruptured his spleen.”

“That’s terrible. His parents should press charges.” She began sifting the ingredients together for her famous drop biscuits.

Jacinda had no idea if Mrs. Penn—who’d volunteered that she was a single mom with two younger kids as well—was pressing charges, and she didn’t care. The woman wanted her son to stand up for himself and have the confidence to do it. Travis was still spooked and sore and freaked at the prospect of getting hurt in training, much less in an actual fight, so he hadn’t said much. But she’d offered to help him out, if they could get their schedules to jell.

“Maybe they will. Meanwhile, I don’t mind helping the kid feel like he’s got some control over things.”

“You can’t save everybody, Jaci. There are too many assholes in the world.”

“That’s crap, Mom. Isn’t that what we’re all about? Righting the wrongs we can?”

“Just leave some time for yourself, love. That’s all I’m saying.” She reached out and squeezed Jacinda’s hand. “Now go shower before your funk ruins my dinner.”

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~oOo~

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After her shower, Jacinda set the table, the dinner chore she’d had since she was four years old, and called her father in from the garden. Dressed in his typical summer Sunday attire of saggy-bottomed plaid shorts, holey t-shirt, crew socks, and sandals, he came in through the French doors and gave her a quick squeeze.

“Hey, Cindy Lou.” He was in a good mood if he called her that. She was in a good-enough mood not to have a twitch over it. “Your hair’s wet. Did I miss a pool party?”

“Nope. Came straight from the gym, so Mom made me take a shower.”

“Our daughter is taking on another project,” her mom said, pouring into chardonnay glasses the wine Jacinda had brought.

Jacinda shot a sharp look at her mother. “Not a project. Just a kid who wants to learn some moves.”

“Well, our girl’s got the moves.” He squeezed her again. “I’ll just wash up and change my shirt, and we can talk over dinner. I’ve got something to talk about, too. Smells great, baby.” He planted a loud kiss on his wife’s cheek.

Jacinda’s mom’s pleased smile shone. “Hurry up, or it’ll taste like shoe leather and phlegm. And no work talk at the table!”

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~oOo~

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Jacinda’s mother’s prohibition against work talk at the table lasted until dessert, which was raspberry sorbet she’d made in the Cuisinart Jacinda had gotten her for Christmas.

“Raspberry sorbet,” Jacinda sang under her breath, to the tune of an old Prince song, as she plucked out the little mint sprig and dropped it to the leavings on her dinner plate. “So, what’d you have to talk about?”

“Got a call this afternoon. Finally got a line on that jumper—she’s in Lincoln.”

They’d been chasing down a bail jumper for two weeks without success. All signs had pointed to Texas, and they’d about given up, figuring she’d made Mexico by now, but “Lincoln? Nebraska? Why on earth?”

“Got a relation up there. Anyway, the intel looks good. But I’ve got to make sure Missy Dean gets to court tomorrow. How’d you like to go up to Lincoln?”

“Bill, no!” her mom cut in before Jacinda could answer.

“Barb, relax. This girl’s five feet nothing, and she jumped a credit card fraud rap. She’s not violent, and Jaci needs the experience.”

“You want her up there on her own to drag somebody back to jail. That’s dangerous.”

“She’ll check in with local law. She’ll have backup if she needs it. She’s tough as nails. And she needs it on her resumé.”

“She—”

Jacinda slapped the table. “Mom, stop. I’m thirty fucking years old. I think I get to make this call. Yeah, Dad. I’ll go round up Miss Credit Card Fraud and bring her in.”

“I hate it when you swear at the table,” her mother replied.

“I hate it when you forget I’m a fucking adult,” Jacinda retorted.

Her father laughed. “Okay, ladies, claws in.” He smiled gently at her mother. “Do we need to talk about this some more?”

“No,” her mother huffed. “She can do what she wants. She’s a fucking adult, after all.”

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~oOo~

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“You know I don’t think of you as a child, Jaci. I just don’t want you hurt. Ever again.”

Jacinda hipped the dishwasher closed and started its cycle. “I know, Mom. I get it. I don’t want to get hurt. But hiding isn’t the way I want to be safe. I’m not a librarian. I’m a private investigator. The job has risks, but librarians get hurt out in the world, too, and they don’t have open carry permits. Or black belts in Krav Maga.”

Her mom laughed. “You always were an overachiever.”

“Yes, I am. So this job will be cake. I’ll drive up there first thing in the morning, rope in the jumper, and probably be home tomorrow night. Tuesday at the latest.”

Her mother rapped twice on the wooden door of the nearest cupboard. “Knock wood.”