Page 30 of Renegade
“You were prickly and standoffish,” I correct. “And with good reason.” Gemma’s father disappeared when she was three, and then her stepfather, whom she had considered her real dad since he was the only one she remembered, had done the same thing nine years later. After that, her mom entertained herself with a string of increasingly younger and bolder boyfriends who were eager to get to know her beautiful teenage daughter, much to her mother’s chagrin. As a result, Gemma learned that the best way to avoid being disappointed, abandoned, or taken advantage of was to keep everyone at arm’s length.
I noticed her right away when I moved to Skyline High School for junior year. How could I not have? She was different, and strikingly beautiful with that long auburn hair and her pale skin and mesmerizing green eyes. But she didn’t give me a second glance, and I assumed she was one of those snooty girls who didn’t talk to boys like me whose skin wasn’t lily white. Eventually, I realized she treated everyone like that. She kept to herself, hiding behind her camera, although she wasn’t quiet or timid, either. Ballsy and passionate, Gemma has always been a storm just waiting to be unleashed—sometimes with lightning that comes in flashes of brilliance, sometimes with rain that cleanses your soul, and sometimes with the whole fucking tornado of her emotions.
“I was already a year behind when I moved to Skyline. I may have helped you be cool, but you helped me graduate, which, in the whole scheme of things, is much more important,” I remind her.
“Not when you’re in high school.”
I laugh. “True.” My smile fades as I watch her lick her fingers. How the hell does she make everything look so damn sensual? “But we’re not in high school anymore.”
She meets my gaze. “No, we’re not.”
I’m about to reach across the table and take her hand, to tell her that I’m kicking myself for missing nine whole years that I could have been tasting her, kissing her, making her scream with ecstasy, when she looks away quickly.
“What are we doing today?”
While she obviously enjoyed last night, she clearly isn’t interested in doing it again, and nothing has changed between us in her mind. And the bitch of it is, I know she’s right. It shouldn’t. It can’t. It hasn’t. Last night was just an anomaly, an unexpected, drunken, incredible, never-to-be-repeated interlude. Thank God one of us is keeping a level head.
I heap my plate with scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, and fruit. “While you were in the shower, I found a place that will rent me a Harley. It’ll be just like old times.”
I got my first bike—a refurbished old Indian—when I was seventeen, and I’d take Gemma home on it most days after school. In addition to teaching her some basic fighting skills, it was one of the things I did to keep her safe from her mom’s boyfriend at the time—a slimeball who made no secret of the fact that he wouldn’t mind sampling both mother and daughter, and who tried every chance he got. I smile at the memory. Nothing scares a redneck in Louisiana like a tough-looking mixed-race guy on a motorcycle. My girlfriend at the time—damn, what was her name?—didn’t like it, but she put up with it when she realized it was nonnegotiable. My friendship with Gemma always came first.
Gemma smiles wistfully. “I haven’t been on the back of a bike since then.”
“It’ll be fun. I figured we’d start here and head south down to Half Moon Bay and Santa Cruz. From there, we’ll hit Monterey and then Big Sur. I don’t think we’ll go much farther than that. Route 1 is mostly highway after that and not very scenic, so we won’t be missing much.”
“How long is the whole route?” Gemma asks.
“The Pacific Coast Highway runs from just south of Seattle to the border of Mexico. If we had the time to do it right, we’d start in Seattle and ride around Puget Sound and see Mount Olympus and the redwood forests on our way to San Francisco, then ride down to Los Angeles, hit San Diego, and maybe even cross into Mexico for a cerveza across the border. But we don’t have time for the full route, and I’m pretty sure this section is the one on Liam’s list because it’s on every guy’s bucket list, not because it’s a clue. There’s not a guy on the planet who wouldn’t want to do this.” I grin. I’m looking forward to it immensely, and the fact that I’m sharing it with Gemma only makes it better. “Besides, finding some cryptic clue along so many miles of highway is like finding a needle in haystack. Our time is best spent elsewhere.”
“Like talking to Dr. Morris’s family?”
“That’s definitely key. I hope they’ll be able to help us.”
“Me too.” Gemma pours another cup of coffee, dumping a healthy amount of sugar into it. “What else?”
“Well, there’s a club on Liam’s bucket list that’s having an event Thursday night.” I hedge, reluctant to tell her exactly what kind of club it is. But trying to keep a secret from Gemma is like trying to take a bone from a puppy, and there’s no way she’s letting it go.
She arches an eyebrow. “A specific club on Liam’s bucket list? Like the tiki bar?”
“Sort of. Except it’s private. And you have to know the right people to get in.”
“And do you?”
“I’m working on it.”
Her eyes are dancing. “That sounds intriguing! A private club. Is it fancy? If so, I’m going to have to go shopping.”
“You’re not coming.”
Her fork stops in midair and she frowns. “What do you mean, I’m not coming? I thought we got past that when you agreed to let me come to San Francisco. We’re a team; we’re in this together.”
I sigh. “It’s a sex club, Gemma. The kind that your friend Declan probably goes to. There’s no way I’m taking you there.”
She practically bounces out of her chair with excitement. “Then I’m definitely coming! It’s the perfect opportunity for research. How could you even think of not taking me?” she demands.
I try a different tactic. “I’m having enough trouble getting myself in, much less another person.”
“Honestly, Walker, you’re one of the smartest guys I know, but sometimes you can be so obtuse.”
