Page 8 of Hell On Heels
“No shit, Sherlock,” she said.
“I know I look weird but I’m Hemlock.” He chuckled.
Razor looked back at Hemlock. “She’s drunk.”
“Shut up,” Lottie snapped, then stepped back realizing what she’d just said.
Razor stepped into her space taking her by the shoulders and pulled her up where she had to balance on her tiptoes. “What did you just say to me?”
“Put. Me. Down.”
“I think you’ve got this situation handled. I’m gonna head home,” Hemlock told Razor.
Razor let Lottie go. “No, it’s best if you ride with us. If not, I might throttle her.”
“Fine but she has to ride with you.”
“Where else would she ride, Hemlock?”
“I don’t fucking know. She’s your woman.”
What?
She and Razor both looked at him like he had two heads.
“I’ll be at my bike,” Hemlock told them. “And they sayIhave no luck with women,” he mumbled as he walked away.
Lottie swore she’d had to have misunderstood Hemlock.
How drunk was she?
Chapter Three
The city bled light. Montréal at night pulsed. Neon signs flickered over narrow streets, washing reds and blues across the pavement as the bikes rolled through Old Montréal like they owned it. The engines thundered, echoing off brick and stone, the sound chasing itself down every alley.
Razor rode point with Hemlock on his right. Lottie clung to his back.
Her arms were looped tight around his waist, fingers gripping the front of his cut like it was the only thing keeping her anchored. She was warm—too warm—and unsteady even sitting still, Her helmet bumping lightly against his shoulder every time the bike shifted beneath them.
“Easy,” he muttered, one hand briefly leaving the bars to press back against her thigh, grounding her. “Sit up, Lottie.”
She didn’t answer—just tightened her hold, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades like she’d already half checked out for the night.
Razor exhaled slowly, jaw ticking as he adjusted his posture to compensate. He rode smoother, cleaner—less aggressive than he normally would. Every lean into a turn was controlled, every shift deliberate. No sudden moves. Not with her on the back.
Chrome flashed under streetlights, tires humming as they rolled from uneven cobblestone to clean asphalt without breaking rhythm.
They passed a strip of late-night bars, crowds spilling onto sidewalks. Conversations dipped when the bikes came through. Heads turned. A few whistles cut through the noise, but Razor ignored it. His focus stayed forward, flicking to his mirrors just long enough to keep track of traffic.
The road opened up ahead, a longer stretch cutting between rows of glowing storefronts. Streetlights strobed overhead, painting them in flashes of gold and shadow.
A hand lifted beside him. Razor caught sight of it, easing the throttle just enough to acknowledge Hemlock signaling he was heading home. Razor glanced over, gave a short wave as Hemlock peeled off clean, drifting towards a side street, his taillight slipping away into the neon glow.
He felt Lottie's helmet nudge his back again. “Don’t forget about me,” she mumbled loudly, words slurred, barely carried above the sound of the engine and the wind.
“Not happening.”
Tapping his hand against Lottie’s thigh, her fingers tighten on his cut.
