Page 82 of Raise Hell

He barely waits for me to get settled before he guns the engine and we speed off down the sidewalk through the mostly empty campus. Luckily, the engine is loud enough that anyone walking on the pathways has enough warning to jump out of the way as we speed past.

Drake doesn’t seem to care that we’re riding down a path meant only for pedestrians.

The nice thing about riding the bike is the whipping wind makes it impossible to talk to each other.

My arms wrap tightly around his waist, and I have my hands clenched together just above his belt buckle.

I force myself to think about how many other girls have been in the same position on the back of his bike, speeding off to be wined and dined before he got in their pants.

Then I remember what Felicia said.

“Drake never lets anybody on his bike.”

I finally work up the courage when we stop at the light that leads into town.

“So, how many girls have you taken for a ride on this thing?”

Drake glances back at me, and even through the tinted visor, I catch the smirk on his face. “What’s it matter to you? You’re only here because I’m forcing you to be, right?”

“I’m just curious. That’s all.”

The light turns green. He accelerates hard enough that I have to squeeze my arms tight around his waist so it doesn’t feel like I’m going to fly off the back.

We blow through town at breakneck speed. I see at least one cop car idling on the side of the road, but they don’t even flash the lights as we blow past.

I can’t decide if all the cops here are just lazy, or if the power of Havoc House really does extend as far as it’s starting to seem.

Both thoughts are unnerving.

I get more nervous as the tiny strip malls and drugstores fade into the background behind us. We end up on a long, dusty road that leads toward the distant mountains. The noonday sun is almost directly overhead, but this road is practically deserted.

“Where are we going?” I shout.

If Drake hears me, he doesn’t answer. More likely, the words are carried away by the wind.

It’s been at least twenty minutes since we passed another vehicle.

Maybe he’s planning to leave me out in the middle of nowhere.

Or something even worse.

After another dozen miles, an incongruous row of shops appears a few hundred yards ahead. To my relief, Drake slows the bike down and pulls into a shared parking lot with grass growing through cracks in the pavement.

I hop off as soon as the bike slows down enough. Drake catches my arm when I stumble, and I force myself to pull away once it’s obvious I won’t fall flat on my ass.

“Where are we?”

Drake pulls off his helmet. “At the best South African restaurant within a hundred miles of St. Bart’s.”

“Is it the only South African restaurant within a hundred miles of St. Bart’s?”

He doesn’t rise to the bait. “C’mon, we have a reservation.”

The parking lot is almost entirely empty, but I don’t bother to comment on that.

We walk into a smoky bar that smells like curried chicken and expensive cigars. There are only a handful of tables, but more people inside than I expected.

Drake leads me to the rear of the restaurant with his hand resting on the small of my back. We bypass a hostess station, but the girl standing behind it just waves.

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