Playing with Fire: A Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count)(24)

Bleh, ash. I licked it up anyway to be safe.

“And that would be another thing Yale neglected to mention. I guess I won’t have to douse it after all. That just leaves the issue of getting you to the station.”

Did Quinn not realize I was a unicorn, thus my own form of transportation? “I can run. Have hooves.”

“I was hoping for something a bit faster.”

I flattened my ears, tossed my head, and whinnied at the insult. “Out-run you, Chee-fuh Queen.”

He scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Out-run you, pesky human Chee-fuh Queeny!”

“That was even worse. You really think you can outrun me in my cruiser.”

Shaking out my mane, I snorted, blowing just enough flame to warn him I meant business. “Yes. Take you. Fass-tur.”

During the certification process and evaluation of my species after transformation, I’d carried a few riders. I’d taken another student from Manhattan to the Hamptons and back. In a less-than-legal favor to one of the instructors, I had run her across the bridge to New Jersey so she could speak at a convention after her car broke down.

We had wisely never told Professor Yale about that stunt, as we both valued our lives—and she’d given me extra credit for the favor.

Quinn was heavier than all my past riders, and I blamed his extra inches and his beautiful, beautiful muscles for the extra weight. Still, I could handle him—I hoped.

“You’re crazy, you know that, right?”

“You know how to ride, yes?”

“Well, of course. I do mounted patrols sometimes in a pinch, and I teach riding lessons to new recruits when the regular instructors are unavailable.”

“You ride. I run. Fass-tur.”

Quinn ran his hands through his hair before giving his scalp a good scratching. “You’re seriously telling me you think you can beat my cruiser to the station.”

“Yes. Stop complain-ing. Bri-dle?”

“Yale left me one yesterday.”

“Sad-dle?”

“I am not putting a saddle on you. I refuse.”

Stubborn human. Why were all humans so stubborn and annoying, especially the pretty ones? “Yes, you will.”

“I will not.”

“Get sad-dle! Take you. Ten min-nut. Be fass-tur if not argue. Wear un-ee-form, get sad-dle. We go.”

“It takes longer than ten minutes to go fifteen miles, Gardener.”

“Want to bet?” I’d show him. I’d make it in nine, too, just to spite him.

“No, I don’t want to make a bet with you. It can’t be done.”

“You will. Bet,” I demanded. “Bet!” Prancing in place, I bobbed my head and swished the air with my horn.

“Christ, fine. Fine! What bet? I really can’t afford to waste time, Gardener.”

“When you here in house, no shirt. Feed me best meat by hand. Grapes, too.” After all, what girl didn’t want a shirtless man feeding her grapes? Unicorn or not, I was going to live the dream. “Keep fire nice, bright, warm. Serve me.”

For a chance to have a half-naked Chief Quinn at my mercy, I’d do a lot more than gallop to Manhattan. “You win, you boss me. I give rides. Make fire. Not make fire in house.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Quinn stared at me. “If I don’t agree, you’re going to play with fire in my house to spite me, aren’t you?”

Oh, that was a great idea. “Yes!”

“I’ll go get the saddle.”





Quinn would be mine to enjoy, and all I had to do was gallop from Queens to Manhattan to have him. As though resigned to his inevitable defeat, he gave me a bowl filled with fresh meat cut into bite-sized cubes while he dealt with my tack. The CDC had custom made my saddle since my body wasn’t quite shaped like a horse’s. The bridle lacked a bit, which was a good thing, as I would’ve melted it down and swallowed it to get rid of it.

Metal did terrible things to my digestion.

After he had me saddled up, he went into his house to change, returning within five minutes. The rumpled state of his uniform warned me whatever the situation was, it was bad.

His cheek twitched as he looked me over. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Swallowing down the last chunk of meat, I gave the bowl a parting lick before straightening and tossing my head. “You ask Profess-ur Yale about ride. You get ride. Complain, complain, complain. You keep time. Me run. You ride. No whine-ing.”

Quinn groaned, jammed his toe into the stirrup, and mounted. I grunted as he settled his weight on my back. Yep, the man was made of pure, wonderful, rock-hard muscle. In nine minutes, he’d be all mine.

“Hold tight. I run fast. Ver-ree fast. Fass-tur than car. Red-ee?”

“Fine. Don’t you dare break your neck doing this, you hear me? So help me, I’ll kill you myself. I’m timing you, Gardener.”

Since losing my rider—my prize—would cost me precious seconds, I eased my way to a canter, unsheathing my claws whenever my hooves couldn’t get enough traction on the asphalt. I would give him a block to adapt to my rolling stride before I hit top speed.

While I didn’t often drive despite having a license, I knew the routes from Queens to Manhattan well enough. After a moment of thought, I decided Quinn lived close enough to Whitestone to warrant crossing the bridge there before hopping onto the Cross-Bronx long enough to reach Bruckner. Then I’d make my run past Central Park to the police station.