Everyone except Jack stepped back, the darkness yawning beyond the door somewhat intimidating. Only Jack knew what actually waited in its depths.
Once the door was open, Jack stepped forward into the darkness and Annabelle lost sight of him completely.
“Come in, Bella,” came Jack’s voice from a few feet away. “I want to shut the door before turning on the lights.”
Annabelle nodded. That made sense. She moved forward, gently tugging Dylan behind her. Jack pressed more noisy buttons and the door slid slowly shut.
“You should get a quieter keypad,” Annabelle said then, if only to hear herself say something out loud.
“Yes, I was thinking the same thing.” Jack flicked a switch on the wall and fluorescent lights flickered on above them.
“Wow.”
“Holy shit.”
Dylan and Annabelle stood motionless where they were just inside the garage. Despite all that had happened that day, the garage’s inhabitants warranted some kind of respectful acknowledgement. And Dylan and Annabelle didn’t disappoint.
“Jack, you’ve been holding out on me.”
Jack smiled, perfect teeth flashing white in a shit-eating grin.
Annabelle blinked, pulled her gaze away from his, and stared at the contents of the room. She counted. A dozen bikes, in three rows of four each, plus one motorcycle in the corner that was hidden beneath a Dowco motorcycle cover. All of the bikes were brand new, or at least they looked it. Chrome and metal-flake paint jobs shimmered like magic beneath the overhead floodlights.
Among the Harleys, Annabelle noticed a Triumph or two and even a Kawasaki Vulcan 2000. Jack wasn’t one to snub his nose at a good bike just because it wasn’t a Harley Davidson. And, he was British, after all.
But in all of the chrome and shimmer, it was the bike that wasn’t shining that grabbed Annabelle’s attention the most. She found herself moving toward it as if she were being pulled by some sort of magnet. The V-shaped engine on the bike had been coated flat black in the factory. The paint job was pitch as night. The exhaust system was straight-shot, different from its sister bikes. It had to be.
This bike didn’t breathe the same air as other bikes. Before now, she’d seen it only in pictures. She came to stand beside it and didn’t even notice that the garage had gone deathly still. Both men in the room were watching her.
Her gaze slid over the motorcycle, from the gauges and controls to the engine cover, through the power train, all the way to the radial tires and machine, slotted disc wheels. It was an artistic study in the dark side. The only thing that wasn’t black was the single blue-white lightning bolt that sliced across the engine cover as if it were actually being struck with a bolt of electricity. It looked so real. It was an amazing custom job and it sent a jolt of something wicked and delicious straight through Annabelle.
It was perfect.
“You have a Night Rod Special,” she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. “When did you get a Night Rod Special?”
“It was one of the first produced. I’ve had it for a while, actually.” Jack said softly, coming to stand beside her. “I got it as a birthday present.”
“Last year? It only has twelve miles on it,” Annabelle said, shaking her head at the odometer readout. “You haven’t ridden it even once since your birthday?” And even then, he had to have only ridden it from the dealership straight into the garage. That was insane! This bike was meant to be ridden and ridden hard!
Jack took a slow, deep breath in and let it out in a whoosh. Annabelle turned to gaze up at him. He shook his head and ran his hand through his thick hair. “Well, the timing is shit, but the truth is, luv, I didn’t get it for my birthday. I got it for yours.”
Annabelle didn’t move. She didn’t really even breathe, actually. She was pretty positive she hadn’t heard him right, but if she had –
“My birthday?” She found herself whispering. It was all the sound she could make. Watching her best friend snuff someone didn’t phase her, apparently, but this did?
“Yes, Bella. You know. The one that happens this Sunday. May seventh.”
She slowly looked from him to the bike and then back again. She blinked. Jack smiled. He leaned in close and she could feel his breath across her ear as he said, “Happy birthday, luv.” His Sheffield accent echoed in her head as he finished, “Now get on it and start it up. We’ve gotta get the hell out of here.”
He straightened and Annabelle watched him move toward the covered bike in the corner. She felt dazed and numb and strange. Maybe she was dreaming? If so, then the nightmare she’d been experiencing was taking a turn for the better.
“Can you ride, Dylan?”
Dylan stared at Jack, still a little wide-eyed. After a moment, he blinked and shook his head. “Uh, no. No sir.” He swallowed and his hands tightened on the laptop he was carrying. “Not really.”
“Then you’ll ride behind me. Give the laptop to Annabelle so that she can put it in her pack.” Jack turned away from Dylan and moved to a bench against the back wall. He selected a pair of riding gloves and slipped them on. Then he reached for a black leather motorcycle jacket that hung on the wall above the bench. He switched it out for the sports coat he’d been wearing and Annabelle was in awe of how effortlessly the new piece melted into the rest of his black outfit. He was the quintessential easy rider. She was pretty sure that on the night he’d been born, a hundred Hell’s Angels were twisting their throttles somewhere in his honor.
She continued to watch him as he then moved back to the hooded motorcycle, grabbed one side of the flame-colored cover, unhooked it from below, and, in one clean movement, pulled it off of the bike.
“Jeeeeezus, Mary and Joseph…” Annabelle muttered under her breath.
Jack stepped back and stared down at the motorcycle he’d just uncovered. He stood there for what seemed like a long time and then he looked up at Annabelle, capturing her gaze. He smiled.
“This one was my birthday present.”
Annabelle could only watch as he gracefully mounted the Triumph Rocket III and turned the key, bringing the machine noisily to life.
Somewhere overhead, a fan system automatically switched on, pulling the bike’s exhaust through the ceiling. Annabelle blinked, gave herself a physical shake, and smiled. The man never ceased to amaze her. He even had sound-activated exhaust systems in his garage. And a Triumph Rocket. Well, of course. He was a bloke from across the pond, was he not?
“Give me the laptop, Dylan!” She shouted at the teenager, who was still staring wide-eyed at Jack and his monster motorcycle.
Dylan seemed to jerk out of his reverie. He moved quickly toward Annabelle and handed her the laptop. She shrugged off the backpack and drew out her own motorcycle jacket, which had been cramped in the pack anyway.
She pulled it on over the hooded sweatshirt, ignoring how idiotic it looked with her pastel sweats. At least it matched the boots.
She slid the laptop inside the pack in its place. Finally, she pulled out the pair of riding gloves that was hidden in the second pocket of the back pack and then re-zipped it shut. The riding gloves were an extra pair that she’d just happened to be keeping in the pack for the past year. Jack hadn’t grabbed her usual gloves or her helmet from the office, most likely because they’d been in the cabinet beneath her desk, hidden from plain sight.
She was just happy he’d thought to grab the backpack.
She shouldered the pack once more and then gestured toward Jack, leaning in close so that Dylan could hear what she had to say. “Get on the bike behind him, Dylan, mounting from the left.” She waited for him to acknowledge her directions and, when he nodded, she continued, pulling on her own gloves as she spoke. “Then wrap your arms around his midsection and hold on for dear life. Don’t lean to either side; just look over his shoulder in whatever direction he’s going. And, for God’s sake, don’t grab the seat or try not to hold on just to look cool. The Triumph Rocket III is the fastest vehicle ever
made. If you don’t hold on tight, you’ll fall off. Period. Understand?”
Dylan hesitated, his eyes locked on Jack, who was power-walking the massive, beautiful bike down the last aisle on his way toward the garage door. He swallowed. A bit of his regained color had once more drained from his young face. Annabelle didn’t envy him. She could have offered to take him herself, but she knew that Jack simply wouldn’t allow it. And, besides, the Night Rod was un-tried for her. She definitely wasn’t ready to take passengers on it.
Finally, Dylan nodded. She gave him a reassuring squeeze on his arm and he met Jack at the garage entrance. She turned away from them and concentrated on her own bike.
Her own bike.
Her bike. Her Harley Night Rod Special. She wasn’t sure what to make of it. A part of her was apprehensive about accepting such a lavish gift from Jack Thane. But that part of her was drugged and tired and overwhelmed. It was a rather powerless part of her at the moment. So, she ignored it and did what the happy part of her told her to do, instead.
She slowly mounted the bike, taking the time to enjoy the movement as she swung her long leg over the V-rod and eased her body into the plush leather saddle. There wasn’t a force on Earth that could have prevented the smile that spread across her face in that instant.
She shook her head, utterly unable to stop grinning.
“Christ.”
And she didn’t even have to wear a helmet.
Chapter Eight
When Jack hit the button beside the garage door that sent it sliding open, Annabelle’s heart leapt in her chest. The bike beneath her rumbled dangerously. She was apprehensive, at best, about taking it out into the street, in the dark, for her first try on Harley Davidson’s official racing engine. And, when it came right down to it, she sort of wished she had her helmet after all.
But Jack didn’t give her much time to ponder her situation because, as soon as he had the clearance, he eased his motorcycle out into the night, leaving her no choice but to chase his tail light. She wasn’t sure where they were going. She had to keep up with him or lose contact altogether. And then she’d be a sitting duck. Alone and vulnerable.
Like Max had been.
So, before she could even think about losing sight of the red on the back of his bike, Annabelle eased her own out after him. The Night Rod responded like a dream. She’d expected it to shoot out from under her like a pit bull on a leash of dental floss, but as she exited the garage and executed the turn out onto the main road beyond the parking lot, she found that it basically handled just like any other bike. Same principles. Just a lot more power.
Jack led them down several empty streets, taking turns she wouldn’t have expected them to take. She realized, eventually, that they were being evasive. Did Jack think they were being followed? Annabelle hadn’t noticed any headlights. But then, someone following them probably wouldn’t have used headlights. And there was no way they could have heard the sound of a car over the roar of their own motorcycles. So, she guessed it was a possibility.
But not for long. No car in the world could keep up with the bikes they’d chosen. Especially when their riders were deliberately trying to lose them.
Now Annabelle not only wished she had a helmet; she wished that she had a helmet with a radio inside. As Jack turned one last corner and she found that they were just across the street from an exit onto the freeway, she experienced another jolt of apprehension. She knew that Jack was going to take them both out onto the interstate.
It was dark. She wasn’t wearing protective gear. Her bike was big and it was fast and it was brand spanking new.
Jack, you trust me way too much…
As she’d anticipated, he switched on his turning signal and eased on out onto the highway, picking up incredible speed as he neared the junction. She slowly twisted the throttle and was struck with the real difference between the V-Rod and Harley’s other motorcycles. If the wind hadn’t been hitting her so hard, she’d be breaking into a sweat. The bike was really, really fast. Not as fast as Jack’s, but quite a bit more speedy than was strictly sufficient.
They hit seventy miles per hour in a very few short seconds and kept the speed steady. Jack let off of his own throttle momentarily and kicked back to run even with Annabelle. He looked over at her and their eyes met. The gaze held for longer than it should have before Annabelle broke it and looked back at the road in front of her. Motorcycles tended to go where their drivers were looking. Look left, the bike goes left. Look right, it goes right. Look down, guess where it goes?
She just happened to have enough experience with motorcycles to know how to keep the bike from doing whatever the hell it wanted to just because she chose to enjoy the view. But it wasn’t wise to get too side tracked, so, Annabelle trained her gaze a good fifteen seconds ahead of them and kept it there for the time being. Jack rode steady beside her.
After a while, Annabelle relaxed into position and began to notice things. The road was newly paved and easy on the tires. That was nice. No distracting bumps; just the steady, comforting vibration of the engine between her legs.
There was no wind, which was strange, but a pleasant change. Wind jerked the bike around and caused tension to ride up the biker’s arms and shoulders. No wind was good.
The night was cold, but not as cold as it had been. Though this last winter had been relatively mild, Minnesota was never balmy in May. Tonight, however, was a truly mellow night. It wasn’t clear and there weren’t any shooting stars or anything magical like that, but the overhead cloud cover kept what warmth there was down on the ground.
And it wasn’t raining. The black top was dry and because it was a week night, it was more or less empty. It stretched on and on.
She chanced a glance down at her gauges. She had a full tank of gas. Jack had set her up. How far could she get if she wanted to? Could she leave the state? Head for the sea side? On a Night Rod, how long would it take her to get there?
In the last ten years, Minnesota had iced up her bones and rimed over her soul. Some days, she felt like she would never thaw out. She felt like she could walk through the desert, trudge from dune to sandy dune, and the frost around her heart still wouldn’t melt.
She had come here a decade ago to help her mother, Rachel, who underwent a lengthy surgery that left her handicapped for several years. In that time, Annabelle finished her BA at “The U”, the University of Minnesota, and then signed up for graduate classes. At the same time, she acquired a job at a health sciences university. She was a natural and a quick study. She learned a lot about graphic design and learned it well.
When her mother’s doctor suggested that his patient move somewhere warmer, her mother listened. Rachel and Annabelle talked it over for a long time. The truth was, Rachel was well on the mend and no longer truly needed Annabelle’s help. So, after much deliberation and wringing of the hands, she agreed to move to Florida even though her daughter couldn’t follow.
At the time, there was just too much for Annabelle in the Twin Cities. A good job, classes, the Minnesota Wild – she was a big fan – and the winters hadn’t yet gotten to her. Plus, there was Jack. They’d been friends for four years by that point, and though she’d had friends for longer, she’d never had any that were closer.
Annabelle’s mother had been forty when she’d given birth to her daughter. So, to Rachel, Jack had seemed just as young as Annabelle. Their age difference didn’t much phase the woman. In fact, nothing much phased the woman. And Rachel liked Jack. For some unknown and, to Annabelle, entirely ironic reason, her mother thought Jack was safe.
It was one of the reasons she’d agreed to leave for Orlando in the first place. Rachel figured Jack would protect Annabelle from the world.
Well, she’d been right on that count.
But who was going to protect her from him?
Annabelle chanced another glance away from the road, this time at her handsome assassin companion. Did he know that she dreamt about him at night? Did he have any
clue how amazingly attractive she found him? Charismatic? Powerful? Did he know?
Why was she thinking about this right now? Was it the ride, maybe? Was she still high on pain killers? Whatever the reason, she couldn’t seem to help where her thoughts were sliding.
And they were sliding, inexorably, toward Jack.
Did he know that, for some reason she didn’t care to evaluate, she not only didn’t mind his occupation all that much, but she was… well… intrigued by it? Something about Jack holding lives in his hands made her weak in the knees. And that was wrong, wasn’t it? It was wrong! After all, he was a killer. He was paid to end lives!
Still, she believed that Jack was not the kind of person to take a life that didn’t deserve to be taken. She held on to that belief tooth and nail. There were so many nasty people out there. She’d been up close and personal with a few of them; if they ever came across Jack’s path during his career, she could not feel sorry for them.
In that light, Jack appeared to be more a vigilante, really. An outlaw, but one on the side of the good guys. He was strong and fast and very, very smart. He embodied an ultimate form of power, and that was a definite turn on.
And nothing short of an overdose of truth serum would get her to admit as much to him.
But did he know anyway? Did he know that she trusted him like she had never trusted anyone else in her life? It wasn’t even an earned trust. It was an immediate trust that made absolutely no sense. From day one, from the first glance, in that bar on her twenty-first birthday, she’d trusted him. Implicitly. And she had no idea why.
A part of her needed Jack Thane. He was like a piece of her. She often found herself worrying about him and his occupation. What if, one night, a particular job just suddenly – went bad? What if it back fired?
What if he were killed?
Annabelle’s brow furrowed and she jerked her attention back to the road ahead of her. It was a sobering thought. It wasn’t the first time she’d had it, either. As much as she wanted to think of herself as a strong and independent woman, the truth was, Jack Thane represented a piece of her life that simply couldn’t be cut out. Not without dire consequences, at any rate.
Hell Bent Page 9
