Chapter 22 #3
Hey! She’s not only letting him kiss her, but she’s kissing him back!
What the? Okay, Crowe. Breathe. Just breathe.
The world is all topsy-turvy this week. It’s got to be those hormones they talk about.
That’s why the guy was called in to help, remember?
The babes aren’t themselves right now. So, what’s his excuse?
Crowe checked out the bulge in his tighty-whities, and that answered his question. He could have been hiding a gun in there too, but it was no little derringer!
Before anyone knew it, they were breathing heavily and rolling all over each other, trying to get skin to skin as fast as possible. Crowe had to jump out of the bag and up onto the dresser to avoid getting smooshed!
What’s the matter with these two? Don’t they remember they have a job to do? Are they going to blow their only lead by blowing each other and screwing away the afternoon?
At last, Joell came to her senses. “Wait! This has to wait.”!
Oh, thank the Goddess!
Rick groaned, then kissed the hair over her neck and whispered, “You’re right. As much as I hate for this to end, we have to get going.”
“You can’t take your cat on my Harley.”
“Why not?”
“Are you serious?” Rick stood with his feet planted firmly in front of the revolving door leading from the hotel lobby to the street. He clutched two motorcycle helmets.
What’s his problem? Crowe thought. Is he worried because he doesn’t have one for me? Hell, stick an empty can of tuna on my head, and I’ll be fine.
“I’m barely all right with you riding behind me in a dress.”
Joell twisted her long, brown hair into a knot at the back of her neck. “Crowe goes where I go.”
Crowe jumped up onto the seat.
Rick looked at the ceiling as if mentally telling the creator that a gigantic mistake had been made when he’d given this woman free will. “And where is he going to sit?”
“He’ll be tucked in my Louis Vuitton, as always.”
“Oh, give me a break. You’re not the least bit concerned that he’ll have a hissy fit and jump right into New York City traffic?”
Joell patted Crowe on the head and whispered in his ear, “He obviously doesn’t know how special you are. Let’s show him.”
She opened her bag, and Crowe jumped in, letting her zip it partway. He stuck his head out to show Detective Know-it-all how perfectly comfy he was. Hissy fit, indeed! Like he’d ever stoop to such indecorous behavior.
Joell walked away from the revolving door and stepped delicately into the street where the bike was parked. She looked as if she didn’t care one whit what people thought of her incongruous attire and threw her leg over the bike.
Rick shook his head and handed her the helmet. “You’ll have to zip that bag all the way and wear him on your back. I won’t take you with me if he’s not completely contained.”
She rolled her eyes and said, “Whatever.”
What? No, she couldn’t do that. He had to be able to see where they were going. Okay, I admit it. I’m a control enthusiast. I don’t like the word freak. Just don’t—
Next thing he knew, she pushed his head into the bag and zipped it shut.
Then he was tossed about until he landed with his side against the warm, flat surface of her back.
This body bag wasn’t necessary, and they both knew it.
I guess in the interest of saving time, she had to let the cop have his way, but it’s dark and narrow in here.
I think I feel a leg cramp coming on. I won’t meow. I’ll prove I can take it like a tomcat.
Jostled about some more, the motor started up and revved. Then all he knew was darkness, vibration, and noise. Rick yelled, “What about your dress?” and Joell answered, “Sit on it!”
Crowe heard some grumbling, or maybe that was just the motorcycle. Eventually, they got underway.
The ride was okay until Rick began to swerve in and out of traffic.
It was kind of like being on the deck of a rolling boat.
Joell had taken Crowe sailing a couple of times, so he knew what it felt like.
He was sure she wouldn’t put him in this vulnerable position if riding a motorcycle proved any worse.
Cripes! Rick must have turned a corner. Crowe pretended he was in a hammock on the boat and just let it swing. Back and forth.
Oh dear. His stomach took a little longer than the rest of him to right itself. Okay, Crowe. Breathe. Close your eyes and breathe…
Ugh! Not again. He turned in the other direction this time. Stomach no likey. Crowe’s stomach was taking longer to return to normal.
Witches have an overactive gag reflex, he reminded himself. If he so much as retched, she’d gag. Close your eyes. Breathe deeply. Picture yourself in a hammock, gently rocking. You are getting sleepy, sleepy… No, I’m getting queasy, queasy.
Oh Gods! Another turn. This time, his stomach didn’t bounce back at all. In fact, he felt so sick, he— No sooner had he formed the idea in his head than it happened. Yak… Disgusting! His morning cat food churned, spewed out, and coated the inside of Joell’s precious Louis Vuitton.
Damn. She’s going to be a very unhappy witch.
Then he heard her gag.
Yup. A very, very unhappy witch.