Page 23 of Crow
Regina laughed. “I keep counting the days until I get my degree.”
When they stepped outside, Angie pulled up the collar of her wool coat against the cold night air.
“Where did you park?” Regina asked her.
“Over there,” she replied, pointing to her Kia. “How about you?”
“One row over. Call me about Saturday night.”
“I will. Drive safely,” Angie said, walking toward her car.
“You too.”
Angie settled into the driver’s seat and pulled out of the lot after Regina had started her vehicle. Switching on the radio, she pushed the button to one of her favorite stations—K-Bull Real Country. Regina had laughed her ass off when she found out that Angie loved country music. Angie was used to her reaction since Gemma and Callie teased her about it since they were kids. In college and graduate school, all of her friends thought she was pulling their leg and refused to accept that she was a true fan of classic country legends. Merle Haggard and Loretta Lynn were some of her favorites as well as some new country artists; she had all of Luke Combs’ and Morgan Wallen’s CDs.
Each time she heard a classic, the memories of eating ice cream cones on warm summer nights in her dad’s old 1976 Cadillac Eldorado convertible flooded her mind. She’d sit in the front seat, and her three brothers would be in the back, and a CD of country songs would be blasting through the speakers as her dad drove around the city’s side streets. Her brothers had moaned and groaned, begging their father to put on one of their rock CDs, but he’d laugh and sing louder. And she’d always reach over and turn the volume higher, which made her father laugh even more.
A small lump formed in her throat at the memory of those nights they’d shared after her mother had died. At that moment, she could almost feel her hair flying in the wind.
Over the radio, Miranda Lambert’s song, “Bad Boy,” came on, pulling Angie into the present.Of all the songs, it figures it had to be this one.
The light ahead turned red, and she stopped. Suddenly, a loud roar drowned out the song, and she glanced in her rearview mirror and noticed a motorcycle heading up the street in the next lane. Holding her breath, she gave a sidelong glance at the rider when he stopped beside her.
The man had dark hair that fell below his collar, and his jacket looked very similar to the one Crow wore.It can’t be him.She turned her head and saw that the back of his jacket had the same writing she’d seen on Crow’s when he’d been at the deli: Night Rebels MC and then, Alina, the name of the town.There’s no way.
The biker, as if sensing her scrutiny, looked over and smirked. Unexpected disappointment wove through her. It wasn’t Crow. The guy motioned for her to pull over to the side of the road.Oh shit, he thinks I’m into him.She shook her headno, then turned away, refusing to glance over again even when he honked.
She pretended to be looking at her phone, hoping he’d get the hint, but he honked the horn again and yelled something at her. Not daring to acknowledge him, even out of the corner of her eye, she thrummed her fingers on the steering wheel, praying that the damn light would turn green.
“Hey!” he shouted.
Not wanting to piss him off, she rolled down the window.
“Pull over so we can talk,” he said.
“I’m sorry, but I thought you were someone else. I didn’t mean to bother you.”
“You didn’t bother me, sweet cheeks.”
The light turned green, and she hauled ass, but the deafening noise of his motorcycle told her he was matching her speed. Angie turned sharply to the right, and the biker honked the horn again as he rode away.
She blew out a long breath and tried to calm down. Anger flashed through her; she felt like a fool. Snapping off the radio, she clutched the steering wheel and drove home.
One way or the other, she’d have to get Crow out of her mind. But she couldn’t figure out why he was eveninher head, andthatpissed her off the most.
