Page 45 of Throwing Shade
“Sorry, my Romulan Warbird is in the shop. You’ll have to make do.”
Another rusty laugh burst out of him, surprising even himself, before he glared at me, as though I’d destroyed his carefully curated balance of curmudgeon and asshole.
Then he marched back inside.
What the heck? “Hey!” I called. “I’m paying you to solve my problems, not walk away because you have issues with my jokes.”
“Wait,” he called out.
I played Tetris until he returned and shoved a motorcycle helmet and black leather jacket at me, his own helmet looped over one arm. “No way,” I said. “Those things are death traps.”
“Says the woman paying a visit to vampires.”
“That’s where you come in, Huff ’n’ Puff. You’re the red shirt.” I patted him under his brown leather jacket. “You’re already in the right color.”
Muttering under his breath in French, he stalked off down the block to a big-ass motorcycle, the kind that the Four Horsemen would ride into the apocalypse. “Coming?” he said, impatiently.
Grabbing my sunglasses, I locked my purse in my trunk and followed, circling the bike warily. “I’ve never ridden one.”
“Imagine my great surprise,” he said dryly, swinging a leg over. “Put on the jacket and helmet. I’ll adjust the fit for you.”
The jacket smelled like him, faintly of cedar, but also with a trace of a musky cologne. I zipped it up, rolled up the sleeves, and put on the helmet.
Laurent secured the straps under my chin. His calloused fingers brushed the underside of my throat and I squirmed.
“That tickles.”
He tugged on the helmet and, nodding, kicked up the side stand. “Get on and wrap your arms around me.”
I’d seen enough movies to know how this worked. I’d have to sit flush up against him, gripping his chest in a tight hold.
“How’s Rupert?” I blurted out, buying time to psych myself up for the ride.
“How do you think?” Laurent shook his head, his lips in a thin line. “He knows he has only days to live.”
I winced. “That’s awful. I didn’t know enthralleds were aware of their predicament.”
He didn’t answer and somehow that made the thought of being pressed up behind him even more awkward. How did you even begin to unpack something like that?
How did Laurent deal with that when he confronted a dybbuk?
“I’m sorry,” I said at last. “It’s not fair that this happens or that you’re left to deal with the aftermath.”
His brows drew together, his glance at me almost startled, then he jerked a thumb at the motorcycle. “Get on.”
Our positions were exactly as expected, with me plastered against him, holding on for dear life, my cheek pressed against his back, and the heat of his body thrumming through me—and that was before he’d turned on the engine.
I tried to match his even breathing, but a paper bag to hyperventilate into would not have been remiss right now.
“Bien,” he said. “Watch your feet and don’t move around.” He started the bike and the ensuing roar danced up from my feet to the crown of my head.
I screwed my eyes shut. For the first few minutes of the ride, I was unable to do more than sing “I Will Survive” in my head. I was sitting atop this raw power, holding on to a werewolf, but as tense I was, Laurent was relaxed, driving slowly and leaning us into the turns more gently than I’d anticipated.
Small details filtered through my terrified haze: muffled radios in cars next to us at a red light, the wind kissing my face, the smell of grilled meat. I opened my eyes. We’d passed a BBQ joint.
Laurent sped up, the entire world kicking into fast forward. The hum of the tires took over the melody in my head, while the vibrations did saucy things to my nether bits. I flushed, my eyes practically rolling back into my head, and Laurent’s laughter floated back to me.
He couldn’t know what I was feeling, could he? I winced. Werewolf. Heightened sense of smell. I hunched into my shoulders wishing the ground would swallow me whole, but embarrassment trumped fear and I started enjoying the ride. I wasn’t locked behind glass and steel, like in a car. I prowled through the world in full contact, my senses almost overloaded.
