She nodded obediently and grinned. I nodded okay and then sighed again. How was it that I could snarl and make a whole roomful of muscled badasses back down, but a red-haired girl who only came up to my shoulder could wrap me around her little finger?
At the compound, I started to have second thoughts. She looked so small, on my bike. I jammed the helmet on her head, feeling like a worried mom. “Slow,” I growled. “Don’t do anything I don’t tell you to do.”
She nodded silently, eager but breathing fast with nerves.
I slid into the saddle behind her. There was some good-natured chuckling from the members who were watching and I gave them my best scowl.
It was the first time I’d ever ridden on the back. It felt weird, not being in control of where we were going. This must be what it’s like for Annabelle.
There were advantages, though. My groin was pressed right up against the warm swells of her denim-covered ass. I felt myself harden immediately. Then she started the bike up and squirmed a little in the saddle as the vibrations throbbed through her, and that made it even better. Maybe this isn’t so bad.
“Slow,” I reminded her. “Okay, put the stand up. Take a minute, get the feel of it.” I helped her, balancing the bike with my feet, but I barely needed to. Within just a few seconds of swaying, she’d got the big machine’s balance point. “Now feed her a little throttle,” I said. “Just ease her out.”#p#分页标题#e#
Her pale hand twisted the throttle and we started to creep jerkily forward. I could feel the tension in her body: arms rigid, spine stiff. It took me back to my first time. But by the time I’d guided her through a few big, lazy turns, looping around the clubhouse and Mom’s trailer, she was starting to relax and the bike was responding to her. “Now a little faster,” I told her.
That’s when things started to go wrong. She had an instinctive feel for the machine but she hadn’t yet developed the muscles you need to wrestle a big bike back into line when it misbehaves. We suddenly found ourselves weaving unsteadily right towards the workshop. Annabelle let out a wail of fright.
I put my hands over hers and used my bulk to bring us back in line, then eased her hand off the throttle and slowed us to a stop. Annabelle was panting a little. “Sorry. I thought I had it.”
I shh-ed her and brushed her hair back from her face so I could kiss her neck. “You do have it. You’re a natural. You just need to build up the strength to go with that big brain.”
She flushed. “I don’t have a big brain,” she muttered.
“Are you kidding? You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. You know more about mechanical stuff than I ever will. Scooter’s impressed and he doesn’t impress easily. And you’ll get this, too.” I kissed her again. “I believe in you.”
She nodded silently. Then, as I climbed off the bike, “Carrick?”
I turned back to her.
“I believe in you too.”
I stood there staring at her for a second, unsure what to say. But at that second, Mac burst out of the clubhouse and yelled at us to follow. Other members flooded out after him: the whole club. I quickly climbed onto the front of my bike as Annabelle scooched back to make room. “What’s going on?” I yelled.
“The warehouse!” shouted Mac. “It’s burning down!”
28
Annabelle
Carrick had explained how the warehouse was the club’s one legitimate business, a place where they sold cheap t-shirts and jeans. The first job of a Prospect was usually to pull a few shifts there, with local teenagers making up the rest of the workforce. True, they used the profits to cover up their shadier business of running guns, but in itself it was a genuine money-making enterprise and popular with the locals: everyone living within the town was given a discount and it provided some of their kids with jobs. It had been Mac’s idea and he was rightly proud of it.
So when we pulled up outside, my heart sank into my feet.
Tongues of flame were leaping up between the sheets of metal that formed the roof. Thick white smoke billowed out of the doorway. Cardboard cartons of clothes were strewn on the ground, some scorched and smoldering. Every few moments, a Prospect ran out of the smoke, threw down another box and ran back inside. They’d gotten all the civilian workers out of there: four teenage girls were standing terrified a safe distance away.
“FUCK!” snapped Mac. He jumped off his bike. “Where’s the fire service?”
Tailor, one of the Prospects, shook his head. “We called, but—” he broke off as coughs wracked his body. “They haven’t showed,” he managed, wheezing.