“Wine?”
He shakes his head.
“Beer?”
Another shake.
“Tea?”
No shake, just a glare—a you-just-woke-the-beast glare.
Don’t say it; don’t say—
“Water?” I whisper, a squint of apprehension on my face.
Gah! I’m pathetic.
His jaw clenches as he turns. Retrieving a bottled water from his refrigerator, he tosses it to me. I catch it and stare at it for a few seconds.
“What?” he says with biting aggravation.
My nose wrinkles. “Well, my teeth are sensitive. I can’t drink cold water.” God’s honest truth.
He rests his hands on his hips and looks up at the ceiling, the muscle in his jaw working overtime.
“I’m fine with tap water.” I squeak the words out like I’m waiting for the ceiling to collapse.
He grabs the bottle from my hands, screws off the top, and gulps down the contents. Then he fills it with tap water, glancing back at me with an evil scowl. “Jacket. Go. Now!” He hands the bottle to me, brushing past to the elevator.
The clicking of my heels echoes with each step as I hurry to catch up. On the descent, I take a small sip of the water and give him a sheepish sidelong glance. He doesn’t look at me, eyes firm ahead, hands fisted.
*
Leaving me and my lukewarm water on the elevator as if I no longer exist, he flips on another single light that illuminates a door off to our right. There’s a keypad by it and he enters a long code before the door buzzes and he pushes it open. I hustle to catch up before the heavy door slams in my face. It’s pitch black again until a large service door opens. Trick yanks off a cover with a magician’s confidence, revealing a motorcycle.
Sucking my wet lips into my mouth, I release them with a pop. “I’m not getting on that thing.”
We both stare at the motorcycle in silence for a few moments.
“Suit yourself.” He tosses the cover over it and backtracks toward the elevator.
“Wait!”
He turns.
I point to a larger something that’s also covered. “What’s that?”
“Not mine.”
I sigh, a lack of trust pulling my eyes into a tight squint. I know there’s more beyond whatever isn’t his, but I can’t see that well in this meager lighting. I could share with him motorcycle fatality statistics and the life-threatening injuries I see come into the ER, but something tells me my words would be nothing more than miming to a blind person.
“I can’t get my leg over a motorcycle in this tight dress.” I gesture to my fitted skirt that falls just above my knees. There’s an inch slit up one side, but not enough give to allow me to swing a leg over. It takes him three meaningful strides before we’re standing toe to toe. I shrug in the most innocent it’s-not-my-fault-I-have-this-dress-on way while looking up at him, thinking he surely understands my predicament. Eyes that give away nothing inspect the full length of my body, then he bends down and rips the skirt of my dress to my hip, exposing the waistband of my thong.
“What the hell?” I screech, grasping for the torn pieces in a losing battle to cover my bared ass.
Trick pulls the cover off his bike and grabs a helmet. Now it’s my jaw that grinds in rage. He wedges the helmet between his knees and gathers my hair, twisting it until it’s piled on top of my head before he shoves the helmet on me and flips down the visor.
“Jacket,” he grumbles, picking it up off the floor by my feet.
He slips it on me and zips it like I’m a child; then he gets on the bike and brings it to a roaring start.
“Get on.” He looks back at me, eyes drifting to my naked leg.
“Jerk!” I huff while throwing a leg over the bike and my patience to the wind.
“Hold on,” he grates, reaching back, palming my ass, to scoot me closer to him, which just makes me more pissed. And turned on in a praying mantis sexual cannibalism way.
I hug his body out of necessity with a scoop of detest and a drizzling of lust. How did my night turn into this fiasco?
“What’s your address?” he asks as we pull up to a stoplight.
I don’t say anything. I’m too livid to speak.
“Suit yourself.”
I flip up the visor. “What the hell does that mean? Why do you keep saying that to me?”
The light turns green.
“Address, Darby … now!”
I spew out my address like venom as he speeds forward. If I didn’t know better—and maybe I don’t—I’d think his mission is to send me flying off the back of his bike. My fingers make a death-grip claim to his abs. If I had long nails he’d be bleeding by now.
I say an instant prayer of thanks when we pull to a safe stop in front of my place. Nearly tumbling to the ground to get away from him, I jerk off his helmet and heave it. He catches it with a look of shock on his face. Shrugging off his jacket, I whip it on the ground.