Shadow's Claim (Immortals After Dark #13)(130)

“Should I care?”

As if he were speaking to a child, he said, “It’s a Ducati.”

“So?”

His expression said I’d just blasphemed or something. “This is the bike to end all bikes!” His words thrummed with excitement; he was so the teenage boy at this moment, flipping out over a motorcycle. “And to find it today? It’s a sign, Evie. Things’re turning around for us.” He hopped on, cranking it.

When the engine fired, his lips curled. “She’s got a nearly full tank, too.”

“Can’t we put that gas into a car?”

“None of them around here will be fixed already.” He rifled through the bike’s storage compartments, ruthlessly tossing the dead man’s mementos and pictures to stow his own bag and bow within easy reach. It even had an empty leather holster for Jackson to stick the shotgun. “Perfect fit.” He turned to me. “You ready?”

“I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before.”

“Pardon? I didn’t hear that right.”

“It’s true. My mom never let me.” I frowned at the small space on the seat that was left for me. “Um, my hood will come off, and I don’t want to cut my hair.”

“We’ll make an exception for this ride. Come on, you.” When I tromped over to him, he reached for my hood, pushing it back over my head. “You’re not scared, are you?”

In answer, I raised my chin and awkwardly climbed behind him. Our bodies now had, like, forty points of contact. I surveyed his back, wondering where I was going to put my hands.

Just when I realized how tightly my jeans had stretched over my thighs, I saw his head dip, his gaze locking on my right thigh, only moving to swing a glance over at my left.

He bit out a choked sound, then put his big, tanned hand flat on my knee. Even through the denim, his palm was scalding.

“Jackson!”

He balled it into a white-knuckled fist. The idea that I’d affected him in such a physical way made my breaths go shallow.

Without warning, he reached his arm back and wrenched me even closer to him, until I was flush against his body from one of my knees to the other and up to my chest.

Then his hand dipped back between us! Before I could sputter a protest, he’d snagged his flask from his back pocket. Shoving it into his boot, he murmured, “It was getting in the way.”

Of what?

“This is where you put your arms around me, cher.”

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”

“Evie. Arms. Now.”

I rolled my eyes. After a hesitation, I finally reached around him—

Just as he rose up to disengage the kickstand.

My clasped hands brushed over him . . . there.

He sucked in a breath, his muscles gone rigid with tension; my face flamed as I yanked my hands back.

“If you touch me like that again, Evangeline,” he began in a husky tone, dropping to his seat once more, “in the space of a heartbeat, I will have you off this bike and onto the closest horizontal surface. And I woan be picky, no.”

Over my gasp, he explained, “I been strung tight for days, bébé.”

He must have suspected I was about to scramble off the bike like it was on fire—his hands, so rough and callused, captured mine, setting them well above his waist.

“Just so we understand each other.” Then he took off.

Strung tight? What exactly was I supposed to do with that knowledge? I sat stiffly behind him as we gained speed down the lonely road, through the town and beyond—passing a forlorn playground, a wide-open clapboard church, a field with bleached cattle remains.

But with each mile, I started to relax. I’d noticed that whenever Jackson and I touched, the voices went silent. Not just muted. Why?

I sighed, deciding to ponder that another time. For now, I just enjoyed the quiet. And the air blowing was like being in air-conditioning again. It almost smelled clean. I closed my eyes and raised my face.

“You like this?”

I opened my eyes to find him watching me over his shoulder. I bit my lip and nodded.

He gave me that sexy jerk of his chin, then shifted gears to go faster.

Adrenaline rush! I loved the speed, the feel of the bike, the way he could make it move so effortlessly. “Faster!”

He raised his brows over his shades. “Hold on tighter, you.”

As soon as I locked my arms around him, he floored the engine until the front wheel briefly left the ground. I yelped, then threw back my head and laughed.

How long had it been since I’d laughed like this?

Around corners, we’d lean in together. When he opened it up on a straightaway, I ducked down with him.

But soon I grew less interested in the ride—and more interested in the driver.

As his too-long hair whipped in the wind, I caught glimpses of the tanned skin on the back of his neck. I wondered what it would be like to kiss him there, to brush my lips against that smooth skin.

Jackson was often so rude, so crude, but all that could be forgotten when I thought about how warm and strong he felt against me. Or when I recalled how brave and intelligent he was.

Mom had said I could do a lot worse than Jackson Deveaux.

At that moment, I concluded she’d been right.

What would it be like to have him as my boyfriend? As I tried to imagine it, I sighed, pressing the side of my face against his back, fully relaxed against him. Soon exhaustion caught up with me. The constant rumble of the engine lulled me. My lids grew heavy.