Page 102 of Ice Wolf
Somehow, the dozens of reporters who were standing outside saw us, immediately shouting and banging on the door. Why not just break in?
By the point we were in the garage, I couldn’t hold back the laughter.
He grinned and opened the door to one sleek-looking sports car. “Your chariot awaits.”
“You’re not going to run them over, are you? I don’t think there’s a chance in hell I can spin dead bodies into a suitable Instagram post.” I climbed in, wondering how his huge body fit inside the cramped space.
He leaned over with the same wicked expression I’d grown to tolerate.
“Trust me,” he said. When he dared press his lips against mine, I shuddered. The same electricity we’d both experienced before was just as incredible.
And just as caustic.
“Said the spider to the fly,” I mumbled. He seemed almost giddy, which was entirely ridiculous. He tossed the bags into the tiny backseat before jumping inside. While the engine roared, he pressed a button on a garage door opener. I expected the door in front of us to open, revealing the reporters in masses.
Instead, I noticed movement in the side mirror. Twisting in my seat, I realized there was a false door in the back of the garage. Clever. He threw the gear into reverse, offered me one last salacious look and pressed on the gas pedal.
The centrifugal force was instant. Moaning, I struggled to secure the seatbelt as he flew from the garage, doing a one-eighty spin on the spot and flooring it.
I assumed there was some sort of pathway, but if there wasn’t, he didn’t seem to care. He shifted into another gear, whizzing by trees with limbs slapping both sides of the car.
“Holy shit. Where did you learn how to drive?”
“Believe it or not, from my mom.”
“Yes, I would believe it.”
His laugh was more boisterous than before. Within a couple of seconds, he pressed another button and a gate opened. My guess was that the opening was hidden like the second garage door. When he hit the road, he skidded slightly, enough so he twisted the steering wheel and had the vehicle under control in two seconds flat.
“Hold tight, baby,” he said while grinning like some crazed loon.
Horns honked.
Tires squealed.
The man drove like a bat out of hell, maneuvering past several slower vehicles, even running a yellow light.
Meanwhile, I was white knuckled, my grip on the dash hurting my fingers. I was also holding my breath, fearful of looking anywhere but straight ahead. While I was fearing for my life, Saint was having the time of his life. Constantly checking the rearview mirror, I had a feeling the man hungered for a confrontation.
That was so like him.
After another two minutes or so, I found the courage to glance into the side mirror once again. “I think you can slow down. No one is following us.”
“What fun would that be?”
“If you want to make it to the playoffs, living is required.”
He threw me a look and I swear to God the man was pouting. What a big baby. What was I talking about? I had the desire to curl under the covers with my blankie and my teddy bear. This was nothing I was cut out for.
Thankfully, he slowed to just above the speed limit. As with everything else about the man, I needed to make do with just toeing the line. At least I could breathe a sigh of relief even if my hands were still shaking as I reached for my phone.
Terror swept through me, but I had to find out if we were mega stars or has-beens. I shifted to Facebook first. After a few seconds of surfing, I finally swallowed. Nothing there.
Instagram was next. Someone had snuck into the rink during practice, but the pictures were actually damn good.
And hot.
One had even captured me sitting on the sideline, although my face looked like I’d been turned into stone. Oh, well.
