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Pick knows, of course. In fact, he’s already talking.
“You produce a warrant, you can take Sarah Jo with you. Until then, I figure she decides when she goes and when she stays.”
Around me, the other hotshots and jumpers nod, all on the same page as Pick. Thad curses (which is entirely unprofessional and deeply satisfying), clearly weighing the odds of shooting Pick and getting away with it. I think this may be the first time in a long time that he hasn’t been able to bully his way to what he wants. Fortunately, he’s also a coward, which is something I should have realized earlier. His hand slides away from the gun.
“I’ll get the warrant,” he threatens, fingers tapping his belt. “I’ll be back. Don’t run, Sarah Jo. Don’t make me chase you again.”
Have I mentioned that when I’m nervous, I tend to indulge in inappropriate humor? I’m the girl who giggles when she’s sad or scared, too, so what happens next really shouldn’t come as a surprise. Despite my panty-pissing terror, I flip Thad a jaunty, two-fingered salute because that’s the perfect cover up for my insides, which are doing an excellent imitation of Jello. Someone laughs and Thad gets back into his car, closing the door far harder than is strictly necessary. I guess he feels he has a point to make. Seconds later, the car peels out of the parking lot, spitting gravel.
Mission accomplished, the other men slowly drift away, truck doors slamming.
“You ready to head on back to camp?” Pick keeps his gaze steady on mine. He doesn’t look pissed, or disappointed, or even curious. He just looks like he did yesterday. He looks like Pick.
I suck in one breath. Two. “You’re taking my word over his?”
“Of course.” He straddles his bike and offers me a helmet. Here we go. Once he has me on board, he’ll start with the questions. Still, I take the helmet and jam it on. It’s not like I want to spend the night in the parking lot (right now I feel the need for four walls and a door with a lock—and a fortress and a few cannons wouldn’t come amiss either). Ubers are also in remarkably short supply in Big Bear too, so since I came with Pick, leaving with him just makes sense.
“You still don’t want to know?” I concentrate on getting myself onto Pick’s bike without landing on my butt. What is it with guys and difficult-to-board rides? Is it dick advertising? The bigger the wheels and the greater the distance from the ground to the seat, the bigger the penis?
Pick scrubs a hand over his head. Okay. He’s not quite the Zen-like pool of tranquility he seems. “Not a question of my not wanting to know. When you’re ready to tell, you’ll share. If not, then no worries. I know how to wait. He’s a nasty son-of-a-bitch, though. I’d feel better if I knew whatever you could tell me.”
Such a pretty speech. I successfully lever my way onto the seat behind Pick. Wait for it… he reaches between us and pulls my arms round his waist. Then he turns his head and gives me another look. He seems to have an endless supply—and he’s definitely waiting for an answer.
“He is. Nasty.” I fight the urge to rub my arms. When I’m around Thad now, I feel like the gross slick just flies off him and sticks to me. In comparison, Pick’s warm, solid, and safe.
Sometimes safe.
Right now, heat and danger practically radiate off the man.
“Figured.” Pick does a quick visual check to make sure I’m secure, then backs us out of the parking spot. He drives with the same easy confidence he does everything, and if I want to plant myself in his lap and pretend we’re riding off into the sunset on happy, happy horseback, that’s either temporary weakness on my part or the fact that riding a motorcycle feels like I’ve just shoved the world’s best vibrating dildo between my legs.
“We dated,” I blurt out.
“Doesn’t look like you got a happily-ever-after out of that,” he observes. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but I get the sense that he’s entirely focused on me. And somehow, he hears me just fine despite the roar of the bike’s pipes.
“Yeah. You could say that.” Do NOT climb into his lap. I try not to sound pathetic, but I’m unexpectedly hosting a pity party back here, and I think he knows it. He exhales roughly, which seems to be the manly version of the sad panda sigh, and his hands tighten on the handle bars. Hopefully, he’s imagining throttling Thad and not me. Not that I actually think Pick would ever hurt me, but he’s only human despite all those super hero qualities he possesses. And apparently my inner Damsel in Distress thinks we should lean against him, despite the awkward seat set up, and hold on real tight. No, I tell her. This needs to be his call. Odds are good he loses patience with me, because nothing about this relationship will be easy.
