What a fool she’d been!
The roar of the biker’s motorcycle competed with a cannonade of thunder that boomed through the sky overhead, shaking the city below. Great. Just what I need. A deluge that’ll bring traffic on the Dan Ryan to a standstill.
No sooner did she have the thought than a space opened up in the traffic. She gunned the Mustang between two vehicles as the clouds gave birth to fat drops of rain that splattered against her windshield. Clicking on her wipers, she tried to shake off the sensation that the almighty seesaw of life was doing its best to drop her ass in the sandbox tonight.
* * *
Dan Ryan Expressway, Southbound
“In any given situation, I’m usually the one with a clue. But I cannot imagine what that woman is thinking.”
Christian glanced over at Ozzie in the passenger seat. “I shouldn’t think Walt Disney could have imagined what’s in her head.” He snapped on his turn signal and changed lanes to take advantage of a paper-thin slice of space.
After Samantha set off with the pudgy biker hot on her heels, and after the heavens opened up, Ozzie had decided it would be best to jump in with Christian. Now they were crawling along at a snail’s pace in traffic, doing their best not to lose sight of Samantha or the biker through the driving rain.
That daft Basilisk is serious about getting his hands on Samantha if he’s willing to withstand this deluge.
Christian did not understand everyone’s mad fascination with motorbikes. Sure, they were cool. And the ones built back at Black Knights Inc. went beyond cool to completely badass. But they were not all-weather vehicles. So why would someone fancy tying themselves to a mode of transportation that is dependent on the weather?
He thought to stick with his Porsche, thank you very much, and all those lovely horses she kept under her bonnet.
“But how could she think I’d want to kill her?” Ozzie demanded, drumming his fingers on the dashboard impatiently.
Christian gritted his teeth around an order for Ozzie to quit abusing the leather and narrowed his eyes at Ozzie’s expression. If one were to look up the word wounded in the dictionary, one would find Ozzie’s puckered puss pictured beside it. It was obvious that despite what Ozzie proclaimed, Samantha Tate had come to mean more to him than a mere gal pal.
“It boggles the mind,” Christian mused, “given you’ve gone through birds the way a bloke with a cold goes through tissues, that none of them have formed a negative opinion of you. But the one Betty you haven’t shagged thinks you’re evil incarnate.”
Not that Ozzie had been going through women of late. In fact, as far as Christian knew, Ozzie hadn’t hopped aboard the shaggin’ wagon since the night he nearly lost his leg. Christian wondered if perhaps it wasn’t just Ozzie’s thigh that had sustained an injury. Of course, he dared not ask. Talk of whether or not a bloke’s manhood was up to snuff was best done over a pint. Or rather many, many pints.
“First of all,” Ozzie said, sliding him a withering look, “when it comes to bagging babes, I’m not like a man with a cold. I’m like a connoisseur of fine wines. Sampling comes with the territory, and those who are sampled love the fact that they’ve been savored by someone who truly enjoys their unique bouquet.”
Christian’s snort was the audio version of an eye roll.
“And second of all, you could look a little less delighted that Samantha is operating under some misguided notion that I…that I…”
“Kill people for a living?” Christian lifted a brow while making another lane change. “If the shoe fits, mate, lace it and wear it.”
Ozzie’s scowl deepened. Then he sat forward, pointing. “She’s exiting. Get over. Get over! Oh my God! Why are you driving like an elderly turtle? Let’s chew up some asphalt!”
“Cool your heels,” Christian muttered, downshifting and shoving his way between vehicles, ignoring the irate honks that followed his progress.
“The Basilisk is following, but he’s not trying to advance on her,” Ozzie observed. “He’s happy just to remain on her tail. What the hell is going on?”
Uh…like Christian should know? “Sorry. I left my crystal ball back home. Shall I pull over and fetch my tarot cards from the boot?”
“You, sir, are a boorish lout.” Ozzie’s affected English accent was actually quite good.
“And you, sir, are a slang word for male genitals.” This was a game they used to play before Ozzie’s accident. They lessened the tension of any given situation by devolving into name-calling and smack talk. Immature? Sure.
But bloody good fun.
“Speaking of male genitals,” Ozzie said. “I saw you staring at my rig yesterday when I was wearing those tight jeans. But just to be clear, while I love you, it’s more like brotherly love than—”
“I only stared because I’ve never laid eyes on anything so woefully minuscule.”
“Oh, you mean the minuscule bit of space left in the crotchal region of my Levis due to the enormity of my—”
“In fact,” Christian went on as if Ozzie wasn’t speaking. “I shouldn’t begin to imagine how you managed to bag all those babes, as you so eloquently put it, given you’re working with such limited equipment.”
