Page 82 of Bad Attitude
“Let’s assume I believe you ever turn your phone off—”
“Two minutes.”
“—we did agree to meet. Had you forgotten?”
Of course I hadn’t forgotten. I thought of nothing else all day yesterday, all day today. “It might’ve slipped my mind.”
He pushes his visor all the way up, until I can see his eyes. Locked on me. He doesn’t say anything, just stares.
“One-thirty.”
“I can’t tell if you’re lying to me, just that genuinely uncaring, or if you’re deliberately pushing for a punishment.” He pauses. “I think it’s the latter, but right or wrong, you’re getting one anyway.”
Fuck.
I can’t speak. My pulse spikes, stomach flipping, nipples tightening so fast they ache.
Anticipation. Adrenaline. Arousal. Each playing off the other.
My supporting leg trembles, and I have to lock my knee.
“You don’t get to punish me.” I find my voice at last, but the words come without the defiance I washoping for. Instead, I sound timid. Ihatethat.
“One minute. Looking good. Bikes in thirty.”
“No?” Declan inquires. “I think I do. I think you’d enjoy it.”
My heart skips a beat, and I forget how to breathe.
Arrogant bastard.
Then my anger kicks in, because that’s easier than the alternative.
I’ve known the guy barely two weeks and slept with him twice. Where the fuck does he get off thinking he has permission topunishme? And why does some stupid, traitorous part of melikethat he’s said it?
How often has hepunishedthat blond woman in Thousand Oaks?
“I wouldnot,” I hiss back.
“Want a wager?” He flicks his mic back on and snaps his visor down, the conversation apparently done.
I angrily follow suit. What the fuck is with this guy?
“Thirty seconds. Go.”
That’s my cue. I roll into the service street, keeping my speed low, not drawing attention. Plenty of time to reach the van for when the men exit.
Cammy’s voice snaps out, as soon as I move.“Car in the entrance, turning in.”
It’s not where we are, it’s at the other end of the street. It could be anyone—someone taking a shortcut, or going to a different building. But we all know it isn’t.
“Security response,”she confirms within seconds.
Shit. They’re fast.
I’m only feet from the van, and beyond it, the car’s bearing down. It has a strip of amber lights on its roof, and I don’t have to see the logo on its sides to know it’s there.
It swerves to a stop a dozen feet from us, blocking the street, the door opening, a man in a uniform leaping out. His hand goes for a holster.
