Page 46 of Petty's Crime

“Tank’s empty.”

At least he bothered with an explanation though I could have guessed anyway. I idly watch as he tops off the gas then disappears to pay. When he comes out, I flinch as a woman carrying a coffee and not looking where she’s going crashes into him. He steps back, hands held up, shirt completely dripping.

When he’s steadied and righted her, I wince, expecting him to go off on the woman, but strangely, though I’m too far away to hear what they’re saying, it looks more like he’s asking her if she’s okay. She’s clearly apologising profusely, but Petty waves his hands dismissively and walks away.

When he reaches the car, he pulls open the back, reaches into his pack and extracts a clean shirt. I don’t know why my eyes are still glued to him, but I can’t look away when he strips his dirty one off.

“Oh!” I gasp, my hand going to cover my mouth. Petty’s got a huge ugly bruise on his back, about right where his right kidney is. It must have been a hell of a punch to mark him so much. Starting to yellow, it looks a couple of days old.

He turns fast at my exclamation and pulls his clean shirt on fast, his frown showing he’s disgruntled at what I’ve seen.

Not wanting for the awkward moment to pass without comment, I can only come up with inanely saying, “I hope the other person looks worse.”

Petty starts, and his back goes ramrod straight. “I didn’t hit back.” Then his mouth clamps shut.

It seems a very odd thing to say for a biker. I’ve seen them around for a couple of weeks now, and often caught them play-fighting with each other. Sarge has even told me of their fighting bouts to keep them fit. I doubt Petty’s any stranger to violence, so why has he allowed someone to hit him without fighting back?

On the personal front, having a pacifist for a bodyguard may not be much help.

Now I understand why, when he retakes the driver’s seat, he gently eases himself back, a slight grimace on his face as he does. But I say nothing else as we wind our way through Vegas.

As we draw near to the airport, I make one final attempt. “This isn’t going to work.”

Petty just spares me one sideways glance. “It will.” Then he concentrates on driving again, the subject clearly closed.

The next period of time is taken up with parking, checking in, and then being called to our flight. We have seats together and Petty just assumes I’ll want the window seat as he takes the aisle.

I’m not keen on flying, so squeeze my eyes shut while the plane takes off. Once we level out, I begin to breathe again, and grit my teeth for the just-under three-hour flight.

“Nervous flier?” Petty sounds curious.

I respond with a look that just saysduh.I think that’s quite easy to see and having Petty as my companion doesn’t make it easier. When I fly with Bart, we can at least talk over performance schedules and discuss the venues where I’m going to play, but I can’t imagine making small talk with the taciturn biker.

He, however, seems to have different ideas. “Tell me something about you.”

I’m surprised that he’s even speaking to me. “Like what?”

He shrugs. “Like things a boyfriend should know.” He thinks for a moment. “If your boyfriend was going to send you flowers, which kind would you like?”

Despite my nervousness, the idea of Petty sending flowers to anyone makes me snort. “What, you, send flowers?”

He shoots me a glance. “You’d be surprised at some of the things I’d do. But this is all hypothetical and shit I need to know to convince your parents that I’m stepping out with you.”

Having great difficulty imagining this man anywhere near a bunch of flowers, I turn the tables on him. “What type would you send?”

Instead of being annoyed, he creases his eyes and considers me for a moment. “Roses would be too cliché for you. I reckon you’d like something that appeals to your senses. Freesias perhaps, or lilies maybe. Something pretty and full of perfume.”

My own eyes widen as he’s hit the nail on the head. The inclination of my chin shows him he’s right, as I ask my own question.

“If I was going to send something to you, what would you like?”

“Not flowers,” he replies fast, with a slight quirk to his mouth. Then lines appear on his forehead as he gives it some thought. “I’m not much of a drinker, but I do appreciate a good whisky. Something like a nice imported Scottish malt.”

“You’ll get on well with my dad then. He loves his whisky, but he tends to stick to the American brands.”

He gives me a chin lift. “That’s a thought. Should we get anything at the airport to take to them? Flowers, chocolates?”

Wow. Didn’t expect him to think of the niceties.I shake my head. “They won’t expect anything, Petty. They’ll just be glad to see me, and intrigued as to who I’ve brought with me.” Again my eyes find his face. “I really can’t introduce you as Petty—”

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