Chapter 8 – Ethan
Eight
Ethan
S un pours through the motel room window, oblivious to the wispy sheer fabric that passes as a curtain here. I would much rather be at a family place along the old Route 66 highway than here, but it's safe and we spent the entire night without me having to put a bullet in someone.
Amanda breathes too deeply to be awake. I don't move my arm off of her yet. She won't ever admit it, but she slid closer to me throughout the night to the point where I was forced to spoon her and cuddle her close to me.
I'm not the type to cuddle, but I gave her shoulder a kiss to keep her soothed and sleeping as she pushed her butt back against me and nuzzled in like she wasn't curled up next to a man she just called a racist. I don't care about my arm or the rest of my body falling asleep as long as I get to hold her this close, but the sunlight coming in through the window blinds me and reminds me that I can't lie in bed all day cuddling.
We have to get our asses in gear and get out of here -- which will be difficult to do without easy access to a vehicle.
My body shifts uncomfortably. This bed sucks. My ass nearly sends the damn thing to the floor beneath us. Amanda fell asleep quickly, which I expected. The tactic works on all women. They find the scent of my jacket soothing.
She believed my bullshit lie about my attraction to her, which made it easier for her to fall asleep, but I can't believe she didn't see right through me. They don't teach you everything at fancy therapist doctor school -- apparently.
Amanda makes a frustrated groan like a middle schooler who doesn't want to get to the school bus on time. She causes an annoying physical reaction in my chest that just makes me want to waste the entire morning when we really need to get our asses in gear.
"Wake up," I grunt. "You've slept long enough."
The tougher I act, the better she'll behave. I honestly don't have a plan for her once we get to New York City, or what I'll do with her while the Boston PD and the mob poke around her old office.
"No..." she whispers.
"Get up."
"Mal..."
"Who the fuck is Mal?"
I hate that I sound like a jealous boyfriend. She sighs, but doesn't answer the question.
"I'll get up."
We roll out of bed together. She turns to look at me and her eyes drop straight to my crotch.
"That thing woke me up, anyway."
Fuck. I hoped she hadn't noticed.
"I have to piss."
She rolls her eyes. "Yeah. Go do that."
"If you run for the door, it'll be hell."
"Whatever," she says. "My ass won't be running anywhere without coffee..."
She yawns again and plops down on the edge of the bed, seated, and bold enough to take my jacket to cover her shoulders. I don't stop her. She looks weirdly hot wearing it over her shoulders and I would much prefer she hold onto it than break for the door.
I take the fastest piss of my life and when I return, she's shaking the motel room coffee maker instead of running for the door.
"I'm sorry, but what is this?"
"Don't spend a lot of time in motels?"
"No," she says. "I'm a therapist in Cambridge. I work. I go home. My life is the basic life of an average black woman."
Average? She looks anything but average to me.
"Is that when you fuck Mal?" I grumble, irrationally frustrated with her mention of this mysterious man and even more annoyed that taking a piss did nothing to diminish my erection.
Worse, I still sound embarrassingly like a jealous boyfriend. Amanda doesn’t seem to notice my jealousy. She just looks at me like I’m stupid.
"What are you talking about?" She has a good poker face, I’ll give her that. But I’m not going to let her get away with whispering about another man and not asking questions. That’s how you end up like Owen and his baby mama…
"The man you were just muttering about while lying in bed with me."
Amanda rolls her eyes and her cute nostrils flare out a little. "It's short for Mallory and she's my best friend that could be dead for all I know."
The name Mallory sounds familiar.
"She's the other therapist I work with," Amanda says. "I should call her. I should have called her last night."
Great. Is this Mallory going to be yet another problem on the road?
"We should start this ride before the sun gets too high."
"What ride?"
I scowl at her. "I'll figure it out."
"You should figure out a shower."
"If you want to see me naked, just ask."
"Never mind."
“If I let you call Mallory, will you be good all the way to New York?”
She glares at me. “I’ll tell her that you kidnapped me.”
“If you listened in on my phone call yesterday, you know why that’s a bad idea.”
If looks could kill, I would be one of Ruger’s shrunken heads out in the desert.
“I’ll be good,” she says. “I just need to tell her to protect herself from men like you and your associates.”
“I’ll put the number in. I don’t want you getting smart with me.”
“Don’t expect me to get stupid.”
“Phone number, doc.”
I sit next to her as she makes her phone call, because my mama didn’t raise a fool. Amanda has a very calm conversation with her friend. Doesn’t matter. The phone call calms her down, although this Mallory woman doesn’t appear to have more insight into the ongoing homicide investigation at their office.
She just asks Amanda, “Do you think the rent will go down?”
Boston will suck the soul out of you.
Amanda and I don’t have much to get together before we get going and she refuses to take a shower once she realizes I won’t let her shower alone. I hear her mutter something about “trust issues”, but when I ask her what she said, she denies saying anything at all.
Once we get downstairs, a gentleman stops us from passing the front desk.
“Mr. Shaw!”
He freezes with visible fright when I meet his eye. Having that effect on other dudes never gets old.
“Yes?”
“Someone came this morning and left you a gift.”
“They did?”
Amanda gives me a nervous look and after the bullshit yesterday, I share her sentiment. While she slept like a baby, I was ready to get up and start shooting at any point during the night.
“It’s parked outside.”
Now we’re all confused. Front desk guy – Miguel Martinez according to the name tag – reaches into the front desk drawer and pulls out a very familiar set of keys. Harleys all have distinct key fobs, and this one looks like the one my brother has.
“There’s a note too.”
He pulls out a crisp white envelope. I take the key and envelope, dragging Amanda to the side.
“Someone’s well connected,” she mutters to herself. I read the note at a pace which apparently frustrates Amanda as she tries to look over my forearm to read it herself. I’m much too tall for any of her ploys to work and the note isn’t any of her business.
Sorry for the trouble. All yours.
– Darragh Murray
I slip the envelope into my breast pocket and take Amanda’s hand as we walk outside together. She keeps trying to yank her hand away, but I keep a firm grasp of her. The cleanest and newest addition to the parking lot is obviously the gift Darragh sent. A brand new red chrome Harley. Fuck. She looks like a dream. Amanda squeezes my hand.
Naturally, it’s not due to excitement.
“You cannot expect me to ride into New York City on that thing.”
"You either get on or I drag you."
"Do you know how many people die in motorcycle crashes annually?"
"Nope."
Amanda folds her arms and I wonder if she's pondering the point I made about black women and the trouble they cause. I'll get her on the bike before I point out how right I am...
"It's safe. I've never crashed."
Technically, it's not the truth. But I survived both times with barely any scrapes and it wasn't my fault Magnum Sinclair introduced the club to his new absinthe based cocktail at that meeting...
"You don't have to crash more than once to die."
"Those men at your office would have killed you a lot faster than this bike and there might be more of them. They know your first and last name, they might even have back up. And don't tell me you trust the police."
"You think I don't trust the police just because I'm black?"
"So you trust them?"
Amanda's brows furrow together, but she has the humility to look a little sheepish. "No. But I don't trust you either."
"That's the thanks I get for keeping my hands off you all night."
"You didn't keep your hands off me," Amanda replies. "You cuddled me all night."
My cheeks redden immediately. She was the one shoving her ass against my crotch and getting cozy. I held her because it was the right thing to do to a terrified woman.
"Get on the bike, Amanda."
"Making brutish commands is not going to get you out of this. That bike is dangerous and if you got a new bike overnight, you can just as easily get a car."
"You know what would be even easier?"
"What?"
She regrets asking the question. And I regret not having bite proof biceps. I buckle a helmet on Amanda while I have one arm clenched around her body to keep her still. Once I survive the slew of bite marks and kicks, I seat her on the bike and start wobbling it so she has to hold on and wait for me to take my seat in the front.
Once I'm seated, she wraps her arms around me and digs her claws into my abs.
"I'm going to grip you so hard, you lose consciousness," she hisses into my ear. Her thighs wrap around my waist and her arms squeeze as tightly as she can. I think it would take a giant and ancient snake to cut off my breathing from gripping my waist but… I let her have her “tough girl” moment.
It’s not like her hands are around my neck.
"You're a pain in the ass," I grumble before starting the bike, fighting the pain I feel in other parts of my body.
My balls ache. And judging by her attitude, Amanda won't be fixing that problem any time soon.
* * *