The elevator announced her arrival in the parking garage with a cheerful ding-dong. She gritted her teeth and determinedly fisted her keys in her hand. Despite the warmth of the air in the garage, an icy chill slipped up her spine. She’d always considered the place well lit. But now the shadows in the corners seemed inky and deep, alive with vile possibilities. And the smells of spilled oil and old exhaust were tinged with an ominous undertone. Something darkly sweet and sinister.
Like death. Like something has died in one of the drains.
Even as she convinced herself it was just a mouse or a rat or a poor pigeon that had flown in and been trapped, she reached into the side pocket of her purse where she kept her self-defense apparatus. Unlike all her other crap, she always made sure to keep her defense stuff handy. She pulled out her rape whistle and her can of pepper spray, since she’d used her last Taser cartridge on Ozzie. Looping the whistle over her head, she thumbed off the plastic safety gadget on the side of the can and scurried across the garage in the direction of her car.
The clomping sound of her bootheels against the concrete was particularly loud, echoing around the cavernous structure and between the parked vehicles. The garage’s location off Michigan Avenue, one of the biggest tourist draws in the city, meant it pulled double duty. The first three floors were filled with assigned spaces for the guys and gals working in the Tower, and the remaining three floors were open to the public. Despite that, she seemed to be the only person around. Which was why she nearly jumped out of her skin when someone called her name.
Ozzie…
She’d know that silky, sinful baritone anywhere.
She spun as a filament of fear unspooled in her chest and tangled with her lungs. There he was, big as life and leaning against the hood of Christian’s parked car, booted ankles crossed, big arms stretching the leather of his biker jacket. His colorful motorcycle was angled into the spot beside him.
The audacity of him!
“There are security cameras everywhere!” she yelled, holding the can of pepper spray out in front of her while shuffling backward toward her Mustang. Her car was still a good twenty feet away, but since the elevator doors had long since closed, the small safety the Mustang could provide was her only hope. “You kill me here, and there’ll be no getting away with it!”
“Kill you? What the hell are you talking about?” He uncrossed his arms and pushed away from the Porsche.
“Oh, right!” Her voice bounced shrilly against the cement walls. “Like you don’t know!” Her heart had gotten tangled up in that filament of fear unspooling in her chest. It beat like the Fourth of July bands at Navy Pier, trying to fight its way free. “You must think I’m an idiot. But fuck me once, shame on you. Fuck me twice, shame on me!”
“Samantha, I don’t know what the—”
When he started to make his way toward her, she lifted the rape whistle to her mouth. Blowing it with all her might, she felt its strident squeal nearly burst her eardrums. Turning, she bolted for her car. This time, her shaking hands didn’t fail her. Her key slid into the lock as easily as a hot knife through butter.
A second later, she was behind the wheel, door closed and locked, and cranking over the big engine. With a pump of the clutch, she put the Mustang in gear and left rubber on the parking garage’s pavement as she screeched up the ramp, sending silent thanks to her father for rebuilding the Mustang’s engine with such love and devotion that in all the years since his death, it hadn’t failed her even once.
Adrenaline burned through her blood. Fear tasted metallic on her tongue, like an invisible hand had shoved an old penny between her teeth. And in her rearview mirror, she saw Ozzie standing there, hands on hips, head cocked. He looked so normal. So…unthreatening.
But it was a big, fat act.
Tears she refused to shed burned the back of her eyes as she peeled out of the garage at breakneck speed. She crested the small rise that would dump her onto the street and quickly flipped on her blinker. As she waited on an opening in the traffic, she darted another glance into the rearview mirror. Nothing. And then something across the street caught her eye. There was a big, burly biker parked there. He was covered in hair and leather.
Now, he looked like the kind of person who would show up in a parking garage to help someone shuffle off their mortal coil. He looked like the kind of guy to chase a woman out of a bar and threaten her at gunpoint.
But it’s never the ones you suspect, she thought.
Then she quickly reminded herself that she had suspected the Black Knights. Ever since they refused to do an interview. Ever since she thought she’d caught a glimpse of Ozzie’s shoulder holster. Ever since Patti Currington, secretary for the shop and wife to one of the Knights, had caught a stray bullet during a drive-by shooting. Ever since any number of curious and deadly things had happened to or around the Black Knights.
Then there had been Ozzie. Ozzie with his smile and his charm. Ozzie making her forget herself, making her ignore years’ worth of gut instincts.
What a fool she’d been!
The roar of the biker’s motorcycle competed with a cannonade of thunder that boomed through the sky overhead, shaking the city below. Great. Just what I need. A deluge that’ll bring traffic on the Dan Ryan to a standstill.
No sooner did she have the thought than a space opened up in the traffic. She gunned the Mustang between two vehicles as the clouds gave birth to fat drops of rain that splattered against her windshield. Clicking on her wipers, she tried to shake off the sensation that the almighty seesaw of life was doing its best to drop her ass in the sandbox tonight.
*
Dan Ryan Expressway, Southbound
“In any given situation, I’m usually the one with a clue. But I cannot imagine what that woman is thinking.”
Christian glanced over at Ozzie in the passenger seat. “I shouldn’t think Walt Disney could have imagined what’s in her head.” He snapped on his turn signal and changed lanes to take advantage of a paper-thin slice of space.
After Samantha set off with the pudgy biker hot on her heels, and after the heavens opened up, Ozzie had decided it would be best to jump in with Christian. Now they were crawling along at a snail’s pace in traffic, doing their best not to lose sight of Samantha or the biker through the driving rain.
That daft Basilisk is serious about getting his hands on Samantha if he’s willing to withstand this deluge.
Christian did not understand everyone’s mad fascination with motorbikes. Sure, they were cool. And the ones built back at Black Knights Inc. went beyond cool to completely badass. But they were not all-weather vehicles. So why would someone fancy tying themselves to a mode of transportation that is dependent on the weather?
He thought to stick with his Porsche, thank you very much, and all those lovely horses she kept under her bonnet.