Page 61 of The Vigilante's Lover
I didn’t panic when we went up a dark ladder or jumped off a cliff into a river. I kept up with him when we ran through the woods.
Although I guess I am also the one who almost got us caught in the car.
Now I’m back to how it felt to be with Jax, sitting in his lap, tying his arms over his head. He may have taught me how to focus and untie myself, but I have so much more to learn. Who knows, maybe I even know a knot or two to show him.
Damn it.
The car slows down as it approaches. The window rolls down. It’s not Jax’s car, but a silver BMW.
“Mia!” Colette calls. “Please get in!”
I ignore her, looking stubbornly ahead. I don’t want her to have to take me home. I’m going to do it myself, even if some skanky truck driver tries to fondle me.
Maybe I’ll let him. Take that, Jax.
Colette angles her car to my side of the road and cuts me off. I halt,surprised she could maneuver the car so effectively.
I back up, planning to circle the BMW, but she does it again, cornering the car hard so that the fender brushes my fingers. She’s that close.
I head for the trees. She can’t reach me in there. But she jets forward and practically circles me to cut me off from that direction. I’ve never seen anyone move a car like that.
So I stop.
“Is that your superpower?” I call out. “Making a car skip around like a punch-drunk squirrel?”
Her high laughter makes me smile even if I am miffed. “You are so adorable. I see why Jax is so enraptured by you.”
Jax? Enraptured?
The side door pops open on its own. I want to hear more about this, so I decide to get in.
The interior of this car is not as posh and supple as Jax’s Lexus, but it’s sporty and fun. The leather seats are dark red. The dash is silver. “Do you have all the fancy stuff Jax has in his car?” I ask.
“Way more,” Colette says as we speed down the drive and careen around a curve. “Jax’s car is a retrofit. This is Vigilante from the ground up.”
I reach for a seat belt, then realize there isn’t an ordinary buckle.
“Oh, here,” Colette says, and presses one of what must be a hundred buttons on her dash.
I hear a buzz near my ear and a beam of light crosses my shoulder, follows the curve of my chest, and goes down to my waist.
“Is it a laser seat belt?” I ask.
“Oh, no,” Colette says with another merry laugh. “It’s just assessing what level of safety is most optimum for your size.”
After a second, another buzz makes me turn my head. This time it’s a belt, not made of a fabric weave like traditional ones, but a rubbery silicone. It is pre-shaped to my body.
“Strange,” I say as the metal clasp jets across my body, then finds its mate on the seat. For a moment it fits loosely, then it snaps into place.
I’ve never felt so firmly secured in a car. Against my back, I can feel the seat shifting to adjust just for me.
For a moment, I think it’s going to force me to sit pressed into the cushion the whole time, but when I lean forward, it allows me to move, just like an ordinary belt.
“This system keeps you safe when you ride with a Phase Six Driver like me,” she says. “I’m authorized to drive up to sixteen hundred kilometers per hour.” She pauses. “That’s about one thousand miles per hour for you Americans.”
“Cars can go that fast?” I ask. “Do race car drivers go that fast?”
“The current world record for land speed is 750 miles per hour,” she says. “But Vigilante drivers consider that a toddler on a trike.”
