Crazy in Love - Lane Hart Page 0,57

ignore the man, even with my skin tingling from the ridiculous feeling that his eyes are still on me, I go back to counting my ones, fives, and tens until I reach three-hundred. I recount to make sure it’s correct before I clear my throat to get the clerk’s attention.

Of course, Mr. Clean with a beer gut doesn’t immediately notice me with my wad of money, so I stand there and wait patiently, staring at him until he finally looks up from his laptop.

“Something I can help you with, sweetheart?” he asks, getting off his stool to come over to the display case across from me.

I nod and push the cash to him, tapping my fingernail on the glass above the largest gun.

“Do you have an ID?” he asks with a cocked gray eyebrow.

Digging in my kitty purse, I pretend to search for a wallet and driver’s license that doesn’t exist and sigh dramatically to convey my annoyance when I don’t find them. The man mumbles something under his breath before he pulls on the retractable cord for a key attached to his belt and unlocks the case to remove the gun. Once it’s out, he grabs up the cash and walks over to the cash register, waving a hand for me to follow.

I turn to do just that, happy that this is actually working, but a wall of black leather suddenly blocks my way.

“What’s a nice little rich girl like you want with a big, bad Smith & Wesson?” The deep, scratchy voice of the smoker asks. I take a step back to go around him, refusing to let him think he’s intimidating me, even if he is. He sidesteps, blocking my path again, now so close that I can smell the cigarettes on his breath. “If it’s protection you need, well, baby, I’m big and bad, too, but I’m gonna need you to pay me in a slightly different kind of currency.”

I try to stifle my gasp of fear and….something else in the pit of my stomach when I lower my eyes to his scuffed black boots. Taking a wider birth around him this time, I actually make it to the cash register, his rumbly, mocking laughter trailing behind me.

“That’ll be three hundred twenty-one with tax,” the salesman says to me while his eyes remain nervously over my shoulder, focused on the other customer. Ready to get the heck out of the store, I dig out twenty-one more dollars from my purse and hand it to him. Two minutes later, he gives me my ticket out of this world in a plastic bag. Only once I rush to get outside and take a breath of fresh air on the sidewalk do I realize that, in my haste, I forgot something pretty freaking important.

Bullets.

Before I can gather the courage to walk back inside the pawn shop, the sparkly chrome from a beautiful motorcycle parked on the curb in front of the Audi catches my eyes. It looks so familiar to the only other one I’ve ever seen before in real life. A classic Harley-Davidson, there’s even the same red flames and black leather padded seat like the one I remember seeing my mother sitting against once. Just once, when he was dropping her off, and I was playing outside with my babysitter. My mother had looked…happy. No, more than happy. It was like she was elated either because of the ride on the bike or because of the man she had her arms wrapped around. The memory always stayed with me since it was the first time I ever saw that look on her face. And the last.

Without thinking, my fingertips reach out and stroke the fading flame closest to me.

“Get your fucking hands off my bike,” a gruff voice bellows from behind me, causing me to jerk away from the Harley and scramble back up on the sidewalk. Looking over my shoulder, I see the smoker coming out of the store, the one who looks up to no good. His eyes are narrowed, and the look on his face says he’s considering breaking all the bones in my hand as punishment for daring to touch his baby. Instead of running away, I hold his icy blue gaze as he comes closer and lift my chin. Someone should punish me. I deserve to be beaten bloody and left for dead after what I’ve done. Why not let him do it? It would save me from having to do it myself.

When he simply continues to stare at me, only a foot of space between us, I place the plastic bag containing my new gun into my kitty messenger bag before I do the unthinkable. Something completely out of character for the old, scaredy-cat Blair. New Blair, the courageous one, who only has a few hours left before she blows her brains out, turns around, grabs the handlebar and throws her leg over the leather seat. And then, because I can’t prevent it, I smile. The expression on the big, bad dude’s face is too funny, a mixture of shock and rage. There’s also what could be lust; but since I haven’t ever been around many normal men before, I could be wrong.

“Are you out of your fucking mind, little girl?” he finally asks, making me want to giggle since he hit the bullseye. I am out of my fucking mind. The words are there, right on the tip of my tongue. Having never said a swear word or any word, for that matter, in over ten years, the urge to do so in this moment is so strong I barely resist. I want to say fuck and say it often, especially when referring to my own mental health.

I am royally fucked up in the head. There’s no other way to describe it.

“Get the fuck off my bike!” the man roars. He’s definitely a man who uses the F-word a lot, I bet, reminding me of the dirty talking sailor from last night. It must be nice, freeing, to be able to say whatever you want. That’s not a pleasure I’ll ever know since the last time I spoke ended with my mother being brutally murdered in front of me, during which I screamed until my throat was so sore I couldn’t decipher my screams from hers.

Right now, I should probably be afraid of this man’s threatening tone, but the look on his brutal face has softened; and I’m not sure how, but I just know that he’s not really upset. He’s amused and…something else. Likely annoyed because I didn’t follow his command. It’s hard to tell since all the brown fuzz covers his mouth and the lower half of his face, blocking most of his expression. My theory that he’s annoyed is confirmed when he flicks his cigarette, stomping it out with his boot before his hands go to his hips, and he blows out a frustrated breath.

“Fine, you want a ride, sweetheart? I’ll give you a fucking ride.” With that pronouncement, he strolls over with the casual gait of a confident, ruthless predator. “Move,” he says with a raised eyebrow, pointing to the padded passenger seat behind me. I squirm backward until my back hits the bar, and then I watch in awe as he throws his long, denim leg over the seat in one swift, sexy move.

Sexy? Scary, yes. But sexy? I guess I have a fetish for bearded bikers in leather. Oooh! I wonder if he has any tattoos! I could ask him…

“You better hang on tight, little girl,” he says over his shoulder before he stands up and jumps. The powerful machine under my ass sputters to life. Not wanting to get thrown off, I wrap my arms around his waist, trying to get a good grip on the smooth material of his jacket. Giving up, I clasp my hands together. Only when he guns the engine, pulling away from the curb, do I realize neither of us is wearing helmets. Which for me is not a big deal. I would guess that cracking my head on the pavement would be a quick, painless way to die. But for him, does he have a death wish too?

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