Page 73 of Bad Attitude
Withjewelryin his pocket?
I clench my jaw, hunker over my bike, and keep tracking him.
He leads me back onto the 101, still heading north. The traffic is lighter, but I’m used to this tailing business now, and it’s easy enough to sit behind a car, skip to the next, use them as cover. Who knew bikes were so well suited to this?
We pass the turn for the 134 east, and Declan keeps going. I give it side-eye as I go by; that’s the road to take if Tujunga had been the goal. We’re heading west now, well out of the city, the road a six-lanefreeway with plenty of traffic to hide behind. Declan settles in, cruising at a steady ninety miles an hour, mostly in the outside lane, weaving in as he needs to pass cars. He’s not pushing it; that’s usual on a Fireblade, and my Ducati keeps up easily.
We keep going for mile after mile, and I’m trying to figure out what’s down here. Malibu’s to the south, Oxnard at the end of the road. The road is straight; he’s not riding for pleasure. He sure the hell isn’t going for awalk.
We’re already half an hour from the city. Is this where he went, last Saturday at five thirty? Is this why it took him at leasttwo hoursto getbreakfast? And that assumes he came back the minute I left, which I very much doubt.
What is it that draws Declan west of LA? This isn’t Briggs’s territory, far as I know. There’s no reason for it.
But clearly he has one.
Mostly, I’m trying to understand what this means for me. So little trust, following him. Invading his privacy. Why am I doing this? I want to say it’s for Kurt, but it isn’t anymore. Not since the jewelry shop.
If that package was going to Tujunga—to me—he’d have picked it up on the way back.
Maybe it isn’t jewelry. Maybe it’s… what else does a jewelry shop sell?
Fucking jewelry. That’s what a jewelry shop sells.
I watch Declan, mind my distance, try not to get myself killed riding with only half an eye on the traffic, and go over the same thoughts again and again.
Along with the fear of him seeing me.
I keep waiting for him to slam his brakes on. To slow, waiting for me. The accusation in his eyes. Pulling up at the side of the road. Taking his helmet off and glaring, angry, disappointed, or both. Asking questions I can’t answer.
But it doesn’t happen. He keeps riding.
Another twenty minutes rolls by before Declan pulls off, swinging for the offramp with his usual last-minute nonchalance. I hit the brakes, duck behind a pickup, hold my breath and hope I’m far enough back. It’s the Simi Valley exit, into Thousand Oaks. Comfortable suburbia, clean, safe, and boring.
The exit road runs long, the traffic light, and I’m forced to hang back. This is where I could easily lose him, and when I check again, he’s nowhere to be seen. All this effort, and he could disappear anywhere in here.
It was always a risk.
But I’m wrong. There are no turns off; the road sweeps around a long bend, picking up the freeway into town. He’s just opened his throttle, probably unable to resist the curve of an empty road after all those boring straights. I give my Ducati her head, blowing past a hundred, skimming by a family sedan like it’s standing still. It flashes its lights, probably already pissed off courtesy of the Fireblade that blew through ahead of me.
And there, far ahead, is Declan, low on his bike. There’s no way he can see me now, not with that view in his mirrors and how they vibrate on this roadsurface. I could be ten yards behind him and he wouldn’t know it. I twist the throttle, crouching low, closing the distance as my Ducati clocks one-thirty, and we race down the road, a few hundred yards between us.
He slows, and a moment later his brake light comes on. I stamp on mine, speed bleeding off, but there’s no handy vehicle to duck behind. All I can do is lie flat over my tank, hope a bright-red motorcycle is too small in his mirrors, and grit my teeth. There’s no sudden deceleration. No twist as he turns to look back at me. He takes the exit casually, the way I would expect, and again I accelerate. I need to know which way he turns.
He makes a right, and we must be close now. There’s a high school. Green parks, trees. Declan’s riding slow, barely fifty in a forty, but the road is empty. He’s being respectful. This is dangerous; I’m far more visible here than I have been, and can’t afford to stay too far back.
Then he swings left, into a residential neighborhood. He could go anywhere in there, and I have a decision to make. Get too close, I’ll be seen, my bike too distinctive. Stay too far back, I’ll lose him, and spend the next hour riding around, trying to figure out where he went.
The second option is safest. Wemustbe near. Whatever he intends to do here, I don’t think he’s in a rush. It gives me time to track him down, even if I have to ride a few streets.
I follow him slowly, no longer able to see where he’sgone, ears straining to catch a hint of his engine noise. But it’s impossible to hear anything through my helmet and the wind of my own passing, even at these speeds.
The road runs down into a quiet area. Large houses, lots of trees. I slow even more. I could come around a corner to see him off his bike, and he’d notice me immediately. That would be… disastrous.
I edge carefully around each corner, watching for him, my heart pounding. The road stays clear, and now there are side roads. He could’ve gone down any of them. This kind of area is just a bunch of interconnecting residential streets, cul-de-sacs mixed in. All I have to do is cruise quietly and watch for his bike.
See him before he sees me.
Cat and mouse.
