Total D*ck(63)

She’d left enough slack between the headboard and my wrists that, after some huffing and more than a few curse words, I was able to turn myself around to face it, though now my hands were crossed and bound even more tightly.

The silver pipes snaked around each other, but I could see areas where they were mismatched and some had been soldered together or screwed into one another. The patchwork of metal was a mixture of old and new. The original pipes weren’t going anywhere, but the ones Carey added might be susceptible to force. Problem was, I could reach only two individual pipes with my hands twisted, and both of those looked to be the permanent ones.

“Fuck!” I seethed and yanked some more, the rope chafing my wrists. “Calm down, moron. Think, think, think.” Peering at the pipes again, I noticed one that might have been low enough to wrench free. It was short, but the solder looked tight. Still, it was worth a try. But there was no way to get to it from this angle. More huffing and cursing, and I twisted to lie on my back again so I’d have more slack.

I scooted up and reached my right hand as far as I could toward the short pipe.

“Yes. Fuck yes.” I was barely able to get my fingers around it, but it was something. I gripped as hard as I could and yanked. Nothing happened, except a rattling noise rose from the vibration in the permanent pipes. I pulled again and again, but at the angle, I couldn’t get enough force to wrench it free.

I rested for a moment, sweat coating my brow. Leaning my head back, I stared at the short pipe, willing it to break off in my hand. What would I do with it once I had it? I didn’t know. But I’d definitely be better off with than without.

Gripping it again, I pulled until I thought the tendons in my wrist might pop. No movement. Scarlett had been gone for at least fifteen minutes, maybe more. Carey had thought to put every sort of rope known to man on his walls, but nothing useful, like a clock.

I leaned my head back and took a deep breath. My arm wasn’t going to get it done on its own. I glanced down my body. Six-four, 220 pounds. I’d been leaving out my best leverage from the force equation.

I wrapped my fingers around the bar, and instead of trying to wrench it free, I pulled myself up, letting my full weight come to bear on that one soldered joint. My muscles burned, but I lifted until I was, for the most part, hanging off that one piece of metal. Then I kicked my legs up and back down, bouncing all my weight. My arm and abs protested, but I kept pulling and kicking.

Metal clanged from below from my efforts and the pipes whined, but nothing gave. Until it did. With a satisfying ting, the short pipe came loose. I dropped to the bed, the metal in my hand.

“Yes!” I roared like I’d just killed a wildebeest with my bare hands. “Kennedy Granade laying the pipe, ladies and gentlemen.”

After the brief victory, dread swirled in my gut like a tornado. Get to Scarlett, get to Scarlett, get to Scarlett.

I inspected my spoils. The pipe had a jagged edge from where the solder had come apart. I scooted the pipe through my fingers and went to work on the rope, holding the threads taut while I whacked at them with the rough edge. Ten minutes later, one hand was free, and I was able to untie the other.

I dashed out of bed and swiped my .45 off the island before running down the back stairs, but when I got to the garage, both cars were gone. I flicked on the overhead fluorescents. Carey’s motorcycles glinted, speed and danger all rolled into sexy packages of steel and chrome.

The Ducati would do.

I snagged a helmet from the wall, turned the key, and fired up the crotch rocket. It purred like a kitten as I eased it toward the exit and hit the button to raise the garage door. A light rain fell, and I’d be soaked through in no time. But I didn’t care. I had to get to her.

I tore off through the slick streets, heading toward downtown. I wasn’t much of a rider, but necessity made me bolder. I gunned it through the narrow streets and then out onto the four-lane highway that was the lifeline between Metairie and New Orleans. Dodging cars, I weaved in and out of traffic and eventually took over the centerline as my own.

The rain pelted my exposed skin, but I didn’t care. The sting would be worth it once I knew she was safe in my arms. A car turned in front of me, and I barely missed colliding with it as I wrenched the bike to the right. The back wheel fishtailed on the slick pavement. I held on tight and barely straightened it out before nailing another car ahead of me. I whizzed past it, the side-view mirror grazing my upper arm.

“Fuck!” I shouted into the rainy dark, lit only by red brake lights and the random working streetlight. I cruised off the main street and took the side roads instead. Flying through stop signs and around cars, I made good time. When I pulled up in front of the hotel, it was right at seven. If Eric was upstairs, I should have enough time to get to the room before anything happened.