Thrill Ride (Black Knights Inc. #4)(76)

A hope that was squashed when Ozzie shook his shaggy head. “Not much. I know Billingsworth was hired to find dirt on the candidates, but other than a messy divorce, one child born out of wedlock, and an arrest made during a pro-life demonstration outside an abortion clinic, none of the candidates seem to have gotten their noses dirty. I certainly don’t believe any of the stuff I just listed would warrant one of them having Billingsworth killed. “

“Shit.”

“You said it.”

“Have you told Rock?”

“Just now,” he nodded

“How’d he take it?”

“About how you’d expect. Seems the guy can’t catch a break. Did you know about all that stuff with his family?”

She shook her head. No. She hadn’t known. But she should’ve guessed. Because it all made sense. Those moments when he thought no one was watching and he’d get that thousand-yard stare. Or those times when he’d be joking and carrying on and then, suddenly, go quiet. Then, of course, you had his assertion that he’d never love her…

And though a small part of her worried that was because his heart was still with his dead fiancée, a much larger part suspected he’d simply built a wall around the organ in order to protect it. And could you really blame him? Everyone he’d ever loved was dead, so why would he want to open himself up to that kind of heartbreak again?

She could certainly understand that kind of thinking. After all, she’d suffered despair and loss, too. And, yes, there had been times since her parents’ deaths when she’d contemplated the notion that it would be easier if she just never allowed herself to get close to anyone again.

“But don’t you worry,” Ozzie assured her by laying a hand on her shoulder just as a flash of lightning blazed through her bedroom window and a crash of thunder sounded overhead. Instantly the sky opened up and the steady thrum of rain against the roof tried to muffle Ozzie’s next words. “We’ll figure something out. After all, there isn’t anything the Black Knights can’t do once we put our heads together.”

That seemed to have been the case in the past…but in this instance? Well, suffice it to say, she was beginning to have her doubts. Which meant Rock had to be having his doubts, and that just sucked so hard.

“Now,” Ozzie continued, wiggling his eyebrows enticingly and raising his voice above the sound of the rain. “You gonna invite me in or what?”

“Um,” she cocked her head, grinning up at him. It was impossible not to like Ozzie. “I think I’ll go with or what.”

He clutched his heart like she’d shot an arrow straight through it, stumbling back dramatically. “Selfish, hard-hearted woman.”

“Goodnight, Ozzie,” she said pointedly.

“Goodnight, beautiful,” he winked. “But if this ol’ thunderstorm scares you, you know where to find me.” She snorted and watched as he sauntered toward his bedroom at the end of the hall. Once he closed the door, she turned back into her room and raced toward her bedside table. Ripping open the box she’d stored there, she peeled off some of its contents and turned to check her reflection in the mirror above her dresser.

Um, not good.

Because, for one thing, her hair was a mess—thanks in part to the haphazard, cut-and-go trim job she’d received from Rock out in the jungle. And, for another, it looked like she was carrying enough luggage beneath her eyes to keep herself geared up for an around-the-world vacation…

Running a hasty brush through her hair, she tamed what flyaway locks she could. The under-eye baggage? Nothing to be done for that, so she waved an exasperated hand at her reflection and tiptoed out of her room and down the stairs to the second floor.

It was dark, the stygian blackness breached only by the dangling florescent lights hanging down from the three-story ceiling, illuminating the shop floor below. But, amazingly, the darkness no longer held any fear, even when a crack of thunder rattled the windows and rumbled deep in her chest. And she had one man to thank for that. Rock.

But first…

Walking to the rail, she leaned over, and her eyes immediately snagged on his ass, hugged ever-so-snuggly in his faded Levi’s as he bent over his Harley, using a shammy to polish a bit of chrome. The bike was simpler than many of custom choppers in the shop. Not a lot of flash and gizmos, just one fantastically intricate red, white, and blue paint job—the beast was appropriately named Patriot—a long stretch, and a whole hell of a lot of chrome.

Of course there was the occasional flare here and there. Like the leather seat made out of alligator hide and the lid covering the battery box styled with the words Laissez les bons temps rouler! Let the good times roll! It was a nod to his Cajun heritage, as were the little crawfish emblems carved into the chrome exhaust.

Then there were the hydraulics…

Patriot didn’t lean on a kickstand like some bikes. Oh, no. With the push of a button, it lowered to the ground, supporting itself on its sturdy chassis, which resulted in a motorcycle that was almost impossible to push over. And with a paint job as intricate as that, one could totally understand why Rock would want to ensure nary a scratch marred the surface.

Vanessa loved that bike.

The clean lines and sparkling paint had spoken to her on such a visceral level that when it’d come time to sit down with Becky to conceptualize her own motorcycle, she’d taken a page from Rock’s book. Designing something that was as beautiful for its simplicity as it was for its artistry.