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“That’s fine,” Storm grates out.
“We can drop this little lady anywhere she likes.”
I stiffen, and Storm’s arm tightens around me.
“She’s with me,” he says.
“Come on, man.” Hawk gives a long-suffering sigh and wipes his massive hands down his thighs. He’s taller and wider than Storm, a Viking of a man. “She’s the reason you almost got shot again, isn’t she?”
I hang my head.
“What the hell did those guys want?” Hawk goes on, tilting his head to the side. “The shooters. Shooters, dude. What the hell?” He turns and nails me with those light eyes. “What did you do, girl?”
“That’s none of your business, boy.” Fighting back is my instinctive response, and besides, who the hell does this guy think he is? I’ll be damned before I let over six feet of muscle call me a girl, because he’s taller. And wider. And stronger.
Damn. Storm is all that, too, and he’s never looked down at me like that.
“Let’s go.” Storm starts walking toward the exit, pulling me along. “She didn’t do anything, Hawk. Just got unlucky. Like me.”
“Does that mean you admit it?”
“Admit what?”
“That you’re suffering from delusions of persecution.”
“I’ve no idea what you mean.”
“Course you do.” We step out, into the driveway and the police car parked haphazardly there. “I looked this shit up when you vanished. Come on, Storm.”
“Know what?” Storm turns toward his friend, still holding on to me. “Fuck you. You think I’m delusional? Go to hell.”
Uh-oh.
“Fine. You’re welcome for the rescue, by the way. Don’t be so goddamn grateful, it’s embarrassing.” Hawk sighs and rubs his eyes. “Oh, and if you need to talk to your best friend, you know where to find me. I’m also heading home, tomorrow. I’ll be seeing you around.”
***
I fully expect the police to interrogate us as to what happened and who the shooters were, but Storm takes one of them apart, tells him something and we are free to leave.
Hawk is leaning against a huge black bike, arms folded over his chest, looking bored, while Storm leads me to a shiny limo.
“How did you convince them?” I hiss at him as he opens the car door for me. “And where the hell did you get a car like this?”
“It’s Hawk’s,” Storm says, as if that’s self-evident.
“His?” I glance back once more at the guy who’s now straddling his Harley and pulling on leather gloves. “He looks like a biker.”
Storm snorts. “He does, doesn’t he?”
And doesn’t reply to any of my questions.
The seats inside are soft white leather. There are foldable tables, like in a plane. The driver is separated from us by a dark glass pane. I turn away from the flashing lights of the police cars parked alongside.
Every muscle in my body is tense and on edge. I might be unhurt and the shooters gone, but something’s very wrong.
“Okay, Storm.” I square my shoulders. “What’s going on? Better start talking.”
“Bossy.” He isn’t smiling, though. He’s sitting as stiffly as I am, staring down at the gun that’s still in his hand. “This isn’t how I pictured us talking.”
