Free Hunte by Rie Warren

pulled on some fresh clothes, my old boots, and my battered black leather jacket. Twenty minutes and one pit stop later, I pulled up in front of a small pale yellow cottage in one of the older neighborhoods of Mt. Pleasant. I’d ridden around the entire area to get the lay of the land before turning my motorcycle into Jessica’s cul-de-sac where a group of kids played on a rope swing in the yard next to her house.
    “Wicked bike, man!” One of the boys next door shouted. “What kind it is?”
    “Deus Grievous Angel,” I called back, getting off and unbuckling my helmet.
    “You know Miss Barnes?” A young girl asked, her breath a frosty plume in the dark November air.
    “Yeah.” I gathered the bags from my ride and started toward the porch.
    “Your motorcycle’s almost as cool as hers.” The same girl suddenly appeared beside me, wearing an odd mixture of pink camo vest, a ruffly skirt, and striped stockings.
    “It’s hard to compete with Miss Barnes.” I smiled down at the kid.
    “She lets us touch the Ducati sometimes. Can we touch yours too?” the brave little girl asked.
    “Maybe tomorrow, when I can supervise.”
    “Awesome!” she exclaimed, holding a small hand up for a high five.
    I gave her a light tap—going full force on the possible-seven-year-old would send her over the side of the porch. Then I waited for her to move on. She grinned at me with big gapped teeth.
    “Do you mind?” I asked.
    She shook her head.
    I put on my mean face—the one I’d used that time Jack had experimented mixing milk and toothpaste in a cup in his bedroom at my house, then hid it behind a chair until I found it, rotting, several days later.
    “Skedaddle!” I barked. “And don’t touch the bike or heads will roll.”
    As soon as the girl disappeared, I knocked on Jessica’s door. Then I took a step back and waited, nervous all over again. The lights blazed from inside, but it was Friday night. Maybe she had plans.
    Maybe she has someone else over.
    She swung open the door. As soon as she saw me, she tried to slam it in my face.
    I caught it in my hand.
    “Go away.” She seethed.
    I stood awkwardly on her step with my arm barring the door. “Came to apologize.”
    “You’re making a habit of that.”
    “Being somewhat of an asshole makes it necessary.” I chewed on my lip.
    “Somewhat?”
    “A big asshole.” I shifted my weight and the paper bags rustled in my hands.
    “How’d you get my address?” Jessica let the door creak wider. She planted her hands on her hips.
    I looked at her meaningfully. “Wasn’t that hard to find.” A fact I wasn’t thrilled about. Even standing out here on the porch I felt like I was putting her in harm’s way.
    “Right. Of course.” Her night-dark eyes skimmed past me.
    “Friendly kids over there, huh?”
    “Oh, them? They go to my school. Can’t get away from them.” Her expression softened slightly.
    “Someone should tell them not to talk to strangers.”
    Jessica blew out a husky laugh. She looked me over with a slightly diminished murder you in your sleep expression. “What are you doing here, Hunter?”
    “Brought dinner. And wine. And flowers.” I hefted the bags in front of me. “You know, to say sorry, and since I’m a shit cook.”
    Releasing a huge sigh, she stepped back. “Better come in then.”
    I stepped in from the frosty night after wiping my boots on the welcome mat. A staircase rose from the entry, two rooms on either side of the front door. I leaned one way then the other, making a quick scan of the living room and the kitchen. Jessica moved off to the living room, and I shut the door and followed. I set the bags down on her coffee table and took off my jacket while Jessica reclined on the floor, her back against the couch. An open bottle of wine and a full glass sat within her reach. The room was lit by a warm crackling fire, several table lamps, and a few glowing candles.
    “Tuscan red.” I swept a hand against the painted wall