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Whether I can or not, one thing is certain: I’ve got her number now, she won’t surprise me again.
I walk over to her bike, not hurrying, because I’ll catch her easily, even on this piece of shit Kawasaki.
The way she fishtailed out of here, there’s no way she even made it out of that first turn.
I’m gonna have to ride down there and scrape her up off the pavement, if she’s not already over the cliff.
I swing my leg over the Ninja’s seat, planning to reignite the engine hotwired by that little kleptomaniac.
When I flick the switch, nothing happens.
I yank the wires out of the ignition. They’re no longer spliced but cut off short.
She cut the wires the moment she got here.
She was planning to steal my bike the whole damn dinner.
All the time we were laughing and talking, drinking that cotton candy wine and eating those $80 steaks, she was fantasizing about flying down the mountain on my Ducati.
I’ve never been fooled by a woman—Sabrina Gallo has done it to me three times in one night.
I don’t know whether to congratulate her or tie her up and throw her in my trunk.
* * *
Twenty-two minutes later,I roll up next to Sabrina at the red light at the bottom of Srd Hill.
Her arms are shaking, sweat streaming down her face, her hair in ropes, and her tattered schoolgirl uniform more gray than any of its former colors.
Her body looks like it was made for that bike. Her expression tells me the bike was made for her.
Eyes shining like silver, her chest rises and falls with hectic happiness.
“I’m never giving it back,” she pants.
Steam rises off my shoulders in the cold night air. Taking a man’s bike is one thing—stealing his jacket along with it is pure evil.
“I ought to put you over my knee and whip your fucking ass,” I tell her.
She grins, utterly unrepentant—twisting her wrist, revving the engine of the bike as a deliberate provocation. “You’ll have to catch me first.”
The rickety Honda I’m riding coughs and sputters next to the low purr of the Ducati.
Sabrina eyes my bike, unable to contain her glee.
“Where’d you get that thing?”
Barely reining in my urge to throttle her, I hiss, “I had to fucking buy it.”
Her lips split into a smile so irresistible that I can’t help but enjoy it, even when it’s at my expense.
“How much did you pay for it?”
“Seven thousand dollars, you fucking asshole.”
She can’t stop laughing. “For that piece of shit?”
“I wasn’t negotiating—I was trying to catch you before you incinerated yourself.”
