Motorcycle Man (Dream Man #4)(122)

Better news, Tabby was.

“Yeah,” I whispered back, lifting my hands to curl them around his neck.

“All is in motion with the Russians. That plan goes down good, we’re breathin’ easy.”

He said no more, I correctly took it that was all he was going to say and even if that niggle came back I didn’t push it. I just nodded.

But I asked, “You okay? About Naomi, I mean.”

“Gives me the shudders, thinkin’ a woman who’d essentially sell her kids was in my bed and worse, as long as she was. But if this means the back of her, yeah. I’m okay.”

“Good,” I replied on a squeeze of my fingers.

“You need antibiotic ointment on your elbows and knees.”

“That might stain my blouse and skirt.”

“Babe, I’m loaded. Dry clean.”

“Right,” I whispered.

“Though, bad news for you, your skirt and blouse are already stained with blood.”

Such was the life of an old lady.

“Well, whatever, it was worth it.”

Tack gave me another smile but through it ordered, “Kiss me then I’ll sort you out.”

I held his eyes looking deep to be sure he was okay. When I was sure, I did as he asked.

Then my old man sorted me out so I was okay.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Mr. Allen Needs a Lesson

“Shame,” Grigori Lescheva muttered, lounging in a chair opposite where I was tied to mine, duct tape over my mouth, his eyes on me. “You’re very attractive.”

I was breathing heavily through my nose. I had no idea how easy it was to breathe, having two choices to use to take in air. Now, only having one, it wasn’t so easy.

Not to mention, I was terrified out of my mind. It was hard to breathe when you were scared shitless.

“Such extraordinary hair,” he continued. “And so much of it.”

I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t. Even if I could, I wouldn’t.

“Auburn,” he whispered.

God, he was creeping me out.

“We could work something out, you and I,” he went on as I sucked in breath through my nose and my pulse spiked. “However, I think Mr. Allen needs a lesson.”

Oh God.

He tipped his eyes to the side then he tipped his chin up.

The man came toward me. My eyes darted his way and stayed glued to him as I panted through my nose, struggled against my bonds but it was no use.

He didn’t hesitate before he sunk the blade in my flesh.

Chapter Thirty

Targets

Seven and a half hours earlier in a house in the foothills outside Morrison, Colorado…

“Stop scratchin’.”

“I can’t, it itches.”

“It itches because it’s healin’.”

“I know that, Kane.”

I found myself plucked out of bed then I found my scabby knees difficult to get to since they were planted in the bed on either side of Tack seeing as I was straddling him.

“You’ll scar, you keep scratchin’,” he informed me, fingers tight to my hips, head on the pillow, eyes aimed up to mine.

“It’s not a big deal,” I returned. “They’re almost gone.”

And they were. It’d been four days since I tackled Naomi and the scrapes weren’t that bad in the first place.

“Leave ‘em be,” Tack ordered on a finger squeeze.

My eyes drifted to the headboard and I muttered, “Oh, all right.”

My eyes rolled back when Tack ordered, “Grab the envelope on the nightstand.”

I looked to the nightstand to see an envelope there. I leaned into him, reaching out a hand and I nabbed it. I sat back as best I could because when I leaned, Tack’s hands slid up my sides and he was holding me closer.

“Open it,” he kept bossing. “Tell me what you think. You like it, I’ll get it started.”

My head tipped to the side with curiosity but I opened the envelope, pulled out a piece of paper that at first glance looked like it had kickass doodles on it then my body went still when those doodles penetrated my brain.

“You see you?” Tack asked and I stared at the doodles harder.

Curlicues and spikes, lots of them, familiar.

I looked harder.

There it was.

My name hidden in the design. Tyra.

I held in my hand what would be me, inked permanently into Tack.

My breath left me and my eyes lifted to his.

“Had my guy draw it out,” Tack informed me then asked, “You like it?”

I didn’t have it in me even to be a little bit of a smartass.

I just answered, “Yes.”

“Right. I’ll give him a call. Get it set up.”

I clutched the sketch to my chest and fell forward, back curved, doing a face plant right under his throat.

One of his hands drifted up my spine and into my hair as he muttered, “Darlin’.”

I deep breathed.

“She really likes it,” he murmured.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Babe, you gotta get used to my sweet,” he declared.

“Never,” I kept whispering, “because you just keep getting sweeter.”

His other arm curved around me and held tight.