Hell on Wheels (Black Knights Inc. #1)(64)

She dropped the duffel bag onto the single queen bed. The damned thing looked ridiculous. The bed, that is. The comforter fabric was a mosaic of fly-fishing lures, and there were four huge, fish-shaped pillows propped against the headboard. Above the bed, two rowboat oars were mounted beside two wicker fishing baskets. He tilted his head to get a better look at the rod-and-reel-shaped bases of the lamps on the nightstands. Even the damned knobs on the drawers of the plywood dresser were little salmons.

Sweet lovin’ Lord. The place was like a Cabela’s catalog on crack.

Ali quickly toed off her boots, stepping out of her leather chaps and swinging out of her jacket. The Kevlar vest hit the floor with a loud thump, and the movement caused the Big Mouth Billy Bass to let loose with the second verse.

“Is there any way to turn that thing off?” she yelled above the racket, warily eyeing the kitschy eyesore as it sang and wiggled mechanically on its mount beside the front door.

Yep, Nate knew of a way to turn it off. He could stomp it to pieces with the steel toe of his size twelve boot. His patience with tasteless, aquatic décor wasn’t copious on a good day. Throw in blood loss, the rather shocking personal epiphany that he was in love with Ali, not to mention the fact that he was going crazy with the thought of some silenced-gun-toting goon having been millimeters away from blowing her pretty head off, and his capacity to endure one more “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” refrain was quickly falling into the red.

But instead of giving in to his desire to silence the animatronic fish for the good of mankind and all eternity, he reached up with his left arm—

Shit! Gunshot, he reminded himself.

And though the wound really was superficial—he’d suffered much worse—that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like friggin’ hell on fire.

He reached for the bass with his right hand—bingo—pulled down the disaster of decorations and, turning it over, popped out the battery. He shook his head and set the newly silent contraption on the small round table placed under the room’s front window. The center of the table was a mosaic of fish species. The seats of the two chairs pushed under the table were covered in the same fly-fishing fabric as the bedspread.

Whoever decorated this place should either be shot or placed in the Guinness Book of World Records under the title, “Worst Taste Ever.”

“Okay,” Ali said into the refreshing silence. “Come with me.”

He had no choice but to follow her as she sashayed toward the bathroom. Letting his hungry gaze drift down to her pert bottom, he squeezed his eyes shut when his mind automatically pictured the thong she must be wearing beneath those snug-fitting jeans. He’d noticed when he was elbow deep in the pile of her unmentionables, the woman didn’t own a pair of underwear with an ass in them.

Sweet Lord, have mercy!

He’d been shot, was losing blood at a fairly steady rate, and the only thing he could think about was the color of Ali’s underwear.

Purple. Or more a lavender, really.

When he helped her into the Kevlar vest that morning, the neck of her T-shirt had slipped due to the heavy weight of the vest, revealing her lavender bra strap, and you better believe he took note.

He cracked his peepers when she cleared her throat.

“You’re not about to faint on me are you?” she asked, her wide eyes filled with concern.

Only if you decide to shuck out of those jeans and that T-shirt. “Nah,” he told her, “just catchin’ my breath.”

“Well come catch it on the toilet seat. I want to get a look at that wound before I lose my nerve.”

“You got nerves of steel, lady. You did me proud back there.” And she had. She’d done exactly as he’d told her, no hesitation, no questions.

“I don’t know how running for my life could accomplish that.”

“You did what you were told. And you held it together.”

She shot him a seriously skeptical look and held up one hand, palm down. He could see her thin fingers doing the shimmy-shake even from six feet away. “Is this what you’d call holding it together?”

Geez, he was such an ass. She was scared shitless, and all he could do was stand there flapping his lips. He hastened to remove his own boots, chaps, and ruined, bloodstained jacket, letting them drop carelessly to the floor. Striding toward her, he lifted a palm to the coolness of her cheek and smiled down at her upturned face.

“Yeah, I call it holdin’ it together when you’re scared t’death, but you continue to function in a reasonable, rational fashion. You’re quite a woman, Ali.”





Chapter Fourteen


Reasonable and rational?

He must’ve forgotten the part where she threatened to bail off the back of a speeding motorcycle.

Ali gave him her best you’re certifiably crazy look and shook her head. “Let’s see if you still think I’m ‘quite a woman’ once I start poking around in that wound.”

Sheesh, his undershirt was soaked. If it weren’t for the few patches of white left here and there, she might’ve thought the thing was made of burgundy material, and he was standing there talking to her as if nothing was wrong. As if he wasn’t shot.

Her stomach lurched.

God, don’t puke. Don’t puke.

Just thinking the word made her need to puke.