In Rides Trouble (Black Knights Inc. #2)(48)

He growled as his dick started stiffening with a little homage of its own. The stupid thing had yet to get the memo that Rebecca Reichert was no longer interested.

So what else is new?

His cock was always the first to respond and the last to clue in, which right about now was just grrreat. Men of nearly forty years weren’t supposed to spring boners at the mere sound of a woman’s laughter, were they?

No, definitely not. Though once again, his little head chose to ignore logic, and he was forced to furtively arrange himself into a more comfortable position as he scowled down at the oh-so-happy pair.

For the last couple of days, he’d covertly watched the progress as Becky and Angel finalized the design of Angel’s chopper, alternating between the radioactive version of jealously and a dull, aching acceptance. Right then, he was somewhere between the two, though when Angel slung a muscular arm around her shoulders, he quickly starting leaning more toward radioactive jealously again.

He’d very much like to march down there and rip the offending appendage right off the smooth-talking pretty boy…and yessir, it was official. His spent fuel rods were no longer being properly cooled and a meltdown seemed imminent. It probably had something to do with the fact that he’d known her for over three years and the night before he’d held her in his arms while she cried out her fear, and somehow both of those things made him feel like he had some sort of claim over her.

Which was ridiculous.

“So.” Bill came to lean a hip against the railing, crossing his arms over his chest, causing the back of his T-shirt to stretch tight across his shoulders. “Tomorrow’s the big day, huh? You’re going under the knife.”

The fiery venom that’d been heating Frank’s blood instantly banked as a chill raced down his spine, like a ghost slipped an icy finger over the length of his vertebrae—or maybe that was simply Death giving him a glimpse of what was to come?

Well, at least that takes care of my jealousy and the little problem behind my fly, he thought. Thank goodness for small miracles.

Or not.

Perhaps he should be rejoicing in the exhilaration of boiling jealousy and the pleasure of an untimely erection. After all, it might very well be the last time he experienced either.

No, goddamnit!

He was not going to give in to his bone-tingling sense of…certainty.

If he had a chance, just one small chance of making it out alive, of being able to protect Becky and continue to do his job, it was worth it.

And despite what his gut kept telling him, one thing he could be certain of was that nothing was ever certain.

“Yeah.” He nodded, trying to push the dismaying sensation away. It was fairly easy, especially when Angel—that prick—leaned in to whisper something in Becky’s ear. He had no hope of hearing what Angel said, what with Poison pounding out of the array of computer speakers behind him and Ozzie—the kid had arrived back from his meeting with his super-geek buddies this morning—noisily crooning, “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.” The kid really needed to branch out musically, but the overabundance of 80’s music continually blasting inside the shop’s brick walls was the very least of Frank’s current problems. “Tomorrow’s the day,” he confirmed. “Do or die.”

He very much feared it might well be the latter, but it was a chance he had to take.

“Well, it’s about time you took care of that shoulder,” Bill proclaimed, nodding, oblivious to the turmoil churning inside of Frank. “You’ve been popping ibuprofen so long it’s a wonder your stomach lining isn’t torn to shreds.”

“Stomach trouble has never been my problem,” he murmured, thankful for that small bit of luck because he had been downing pain meds for years instead of taking his chances with surgery.

Bill patted the bottle of Pepto-Bismol in his hip pocket and grimaced. “Wish I could say the same.”

“I’ve seen you swilling that stuff. Is there, uh, is there something you want to talk about?”

“Lord, no,” Bill replied. Which was guy-speak for as long as I don’t say it out loud, there isn’t really a problem.

Frank understood. He wasn’t much for the touchy-feely, tell-me-all-your-woes-so-I-can-commiserate kind of thing himself. Sometimes a man just needed to work through his own shit in his own time. He just hoped Wild Bill worked through his before he needed a stomach transplant.

Ah…perfect. So now Dan Man was going to need a liver transplant, Bill was going to need a stomach transplant, and he couldn’t miss the irony that the downfall of both men wasn’t a case of terminal ballistics or capture by enemy forces. Hell no. The direct cause of both men’s maladies was a woman, or more accurately the absence of a woman.

Jesus H. Christ, wasn’t that always the way of it? The toughest, meanest men on the planet turned into whiskey-guzzling, Pepto-chugging, shit for brains when someone with a round ass and sweet-smelling hair minced her precious self into the picture.

It was almost enough to make a smart man want to avoid the fairer sex all together…almost.

A burst of laughter cut through Ozzie’s Bret Michaels impression, and Frank once more focused on the couple down below, grinding his jaw so hard his eye sockets ached when Becky stuffed a sucker in Angel’s breast pocket.

His vision actually hazed with red as he wondered if the lollipop was root beer flavored.