Page 9 of The Biker's Brother

She pulled her attention away from the hypnotic fugue state of watching buildings go by and said, “Whatever you want.”

Loomis turned to a satellite radio station that featured pop soft. She sighed and resumed watching the people crowding the sidewalks, busily going through the motions of heading to work, getting groceries, delivering documents, or whatever else top of the day meant to six million people.

Eventually the town car navigated stop and go until they reached the Park Right located adjacent to the Lincoln Tunnel. They pulled in next to a large sign that said Open Twenty Four Hours and drove to the service door where a van painted to match a Con Ed service vehicle waited.

Loomis opened the back doors of the van before opening the back door of the town car. He, the town car driver, and the Con Ed driver were all three out of their respective vehicles scanning the surroundings for any sign that they were being observed. Cami got out of the car and into the back of the van, where she sat on the rubber mat covering the floor. She was pretty sure it was covered in a millimeter of dust and grease in equal parts.

“Looks clear to me,” Loomis told Brandon.

Brand nodded.

“Let your boss know we’re on schedule and I’ve got it from here.”

For a second she deliberated whether staying alive was really worth the discomfort and humiliation of being jostled in the back of a dirty van like a used appliance on the way to the dump.

Brand took the tunnel under the river and drove to Newark without seeing his passenger or speaking a word to her. When he arrived back at the warehouse, he used the remote on the visor to open the bay door. Dyson was waiting, looking pleased that things were going according to plan.

Since Brand had left, they’d turned a section of the warehouse into a mini salon on call with bright lights on tripods, a chair with hydraulics, rolling stands and fancy sprayers attached to the sink.

He turned off the engine and got out. Dyson had already opened the van doors and helped the package out. That was the first time that Brand got a look at Cami. She’d pulled off her hat, sunglasses, and wig in the van. She looked over at him before she headed for the salon chair and his breath almost froze in his lungs.

She had the most unusual violet-colored eyes he’d ever seen and a heart-shaped face surrounded by long mahogany hair so glossy it looked like she was getting ready to do a TV commercial. Brandon knew that it would be a crime to do a radical make-over of a creature as perfect as Camden Carmichael. But it had to be done.

He moved her luggage into the green Chevy Tahoe they’d be taking for the first leg of their journey, then settled into a corner of the warehouse that was outfitted like a makeshift lounge with coffee, couches, and magazines. Repeatedly he tried to find interest in one of the articles, but his curiosity kept pulling his gaze over to the salon.

The stylist cut away a full twelve inches of dark shiny hair, then bleached the tips so that, instead of looking like a society babe, Cami looked more like a rock chick. A little tough. A little hip. And a lot of f.u.

The whole process took almost two hours. When it was over, her eyes were still arresting, but they looked different with smoky eye makeup and blond-tipped pixie hair.

Brandon had to give her credit. If she was attached to her former look, she didn’t let on. She stoically walked to the restroom, put on a thin cotton tee, jeans torn at one knee, and a plain gray cotton hoodie. The pumps she’d worn into the warehouse were replaced with boots that could have functioned equally well for hiking or combat.

She thanked the stylist, walked to the van and climbed into the front seat. As Brandon slid in on the driver’s side, she looked at him, really seeing him for the first time, and thought she saw something vaguely familiar. Deciding that she’d probably seen a model who resembled him on a store poster, she turned toward the front seeming resigned to whatever was coming next. She still hadn’t spoken a word to Brand, nor he to her.

“You have a cell phone on you?” She shook her head. “Okay. Put your head down between your knees. I’ll let you know when I’m sure we weren’t followed.”

She gave him a withering look, but complied, putting her head down, presumably so that she wouldn’t be seen while he pulled out of the bay doors on the other side of the building.

She was thinking this last humiliation was a bit of overkill because, post make-over, her own mother wouldn’t recognize her. Not that her mother had looked at her closely for years.

She remained in that position for almost twenty minutes while they sped south on the interstate. After they turned onto Highway One, he said, “You can sit up.”

He handed her a big thick U.S. atlas or, rather, plopped it in her lap.

“You’re going to navigate.”

“Just use GPS,” she said.

He smirked. “This car is too old for GPS.”

“Oh.” She opened the atlas. She had a degree in art history. Surely she could figure out how to read a map. “I don’t see why we can’t fly.”

“Because, if your husband is as resourceful as we hear, he could hack airport data bases for your name; even private airports keep information.” He looked her over. “My name’s Brandon, by the way.”

“I know who you are,” she said, looking out the window.

“Right. Have you decided whoyouwant to be until this is over?” She looked at him blankly. “You need a different name. I’m not going to call you Camden…”

“Cami,” she corrected softly, turning her attention to pulling at a thread hanging from the hem of her hoodie.

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