Jacked Up (Bowen Boys #4)(20)

“Why?”

“I’m meeting somebody, but it will be just five minutes. You can go home and wait for me there. Or head to Rosita’s.”

“Let me make something perfectly clear to you, pet. Wherever you’re going, I’m going with you, or you aren’t going at all. Pick.”

“Okay,” she grumbled while her cell chimed and she read the message. “Don’t say I didn’t give you any options.”

He frowned, but she didn’t seem forthcoming and Jack welcomed the silence. Being around Elle was so exhausting. She was always talking about something or on her phone and on the go. He was sure he’d spoken more the past twenty-four hours than in the last month.

“Damn, I got a run in my pantyhose. This job is a killer on hosiery,” she said. “Don’t look.”

Fantastic. That was the equivalent of saying “don’t think about a pink elephant.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw her squirming in her seat. “What are you doing?”

“Taking my pantyhose off. I can’t go around with a run on them as big as a freaking highway, can I?”

Crap. Shit. That was exactly what he needed. Elle lifting her hips, pulling her pencil skirt up, and shimmying out of her stockings. As if his poor dick wasn’t in enough pain already.

He kept his eyes on the road, his jaw clenched, his knuckles white from clutching the wheel.

Being undercover always played a number on his libido, but one look at Elle and he was standing at full salute, ready to go—dying to go, actually—his cock throbbing and reminding him he’d gotten no action in almost a year.

“Done,” he heard her say.

Jack threw a glance her way. Yep, her gorgeous, tanned legs were bare and she was straightening her skirt. She dumped the tightly bunched pantyhose into her purse. Then she rummaged around, grabbed something, and after opening the window, threw it away.

A small, black, button-shaped thing. His bug. He turned to her. “I saw that.”

She held his gaze, amused, not the least sorry. “Oops. It slipped.”

Cheeky, his pet.

Her cell beeped and she started texting again. In between texting, she reached for the radio and flipped the channels until she found one with something that sounded like music from the fifties.

“Yeah, Grease,” she said, and began singing “tell me more, tell me more, did you get very far,” while typing something on her cell. Jesus Christ, talk about multitasking.

They hit traffic on their way downtown, arriving with just a few minutes to spare. By then, Elle was tapping her knee nervously, her phone beeping constantly. Getting on Jack’s last nerve.

“We’re here; now what?” he asked, parking.

“We’re on the wrong side. We have to be at the corner of Fifth and Palmer.” She jumped out of the car and rushed ahead, dodging people.

“Slow down,” he growled, catching up with her.

“I’m going to be late. I should have driven. You’re frigging slow. A yellow light means speed up, not slow down.”

Sure. If it had been up to her, they would have run half the red lights.

That he was an excellent getaway driver, he kept to himself. “Risking one’s life when it’s not absolutely necessary is unacceptable.”

She didn’t hear him, or if she did, she totally ignored him and kept blabbing, trying unsuccessfully to make headway. “Next time we’re taking René. I told you the I-15 was no good.”

Jack grabbed her by her belt loop, bringing her to an abrupt halt and turning her around.

“Jack, what the hell are—”

He took her mouth, hard. “Calm down. Shut up and follow me.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, her luscious lips shiny from him ravishing them. “This is becoming a habit already,” she muttered as he navigated the crowd much more efficiently. “Very unflattering.”

No shit. Very unflattering—not for her, but for him. He didn’t seem to be able to stop kissing her. Twenty-four hours and he was already breaking all sorts of rules. No physical contact, the most important, had gone out the window. As if he didn’t have trouble enough keeping it down when she was around.

He got her to the corner where she was supposed to meet God f*cking knew who as the train-station clock struck six o’clock.

“Now what?”

“Now we cross the street,” she stated.

What the f*ck? They’d just come from that direction.

She was toying with him.

“Pet,” he growled, “I will not be played—”

But he couldn’t continue because the light turned green, and when people started crossing, loud music blasted from speakers whose location he wasn’t able to pinpoint.

We’re your Weather Girls

Suddenly, everyone around him burst into dance, Elle included.

Fuck. He was in the middle of a flash mob. Talk about going unnoticed.

Of course Elle would be in a flash mob. Why wouldn’t she engage in one of the most useless activities in the world?

He moved a bit aside, as the dancers got it on, their choreography very elaborate and coordinated as the song went on about raining men and umbrellas and God knew what else more.

People were exiting their cars and other surprised passersby were clapping their hands to the rhythm of the song, all of them singing along.