Page 43 of Live Love Steal
I stared at the dents where bullets had pounded into the bin. If it had been built cheaper, or the steel thinner, or if they’d had higher caliber weapons…
I’d have lost her.
Whoosh, for once, was thinking. “Dude, we gotta move. Can you drive that one?”
Right. Our stolen car. The vehicle I’d modified for drugs. We couldn’t let it fall into the hands of the police. I grabbed Isobel’s hand and pulled her toward the car. I told Whoosh, “I’ll follow you. This one has plates.”
He nodded, but hesitated. “Where?”
“Dipshit. What was the plan?”
“Oh, right. See ya there.”
“My car.” Isobel reached toward her car.
“Do you want to ride with Whoosh?” She probably would, seeing as I’d caused her troubles since well before this morning.
She looked down at her ruined clothes. “No. I’m going to fuck up your car.”
That was my iron girl.
When had I gotten possessive? And worse… how was I ever going to let her go after all this?
I knew one thing—Bear wasn’t going to scare her any worse than I already had. And on the heels of that, I also realized I owed her. The club owed her.
And repaying that debt started now.
“Get in, roll the windows down, and I’ll be right there.”
“Key?”
I gave her a look.
“Right. Duh.” She muttered something under her breath that sounded like, “Keys? We don’t need no stinking keys.”
Good to see she still had a sense of humor.
I checked on Victor. His pulse was thready. As I touched his neck, he stirred. I caught sight of the gun in his hand almost too late.
Reflex had me reaching for my weapon before I could think. And a second later, there was no walking back my action. He was most certainly dead now.
Whoosh’s eyes went a bit wide. He stared at Isobel, who’d seen the entire thing. She was shaking.
Fuck.
I sent Whoosh the order to get moving and opened the door for Isobel. “Well?”
She stared at the open door, then me, then at her clothes.
Her chin went up. “Thank you.” She slid into her seat as if we were on a date, and she wasn’t covered in disgusting slime. I had a momentary vision of her wearing something slinky, doing the same motion of that pivot with a sexy leg cross, and the little shuffle of activity women do while they wait for you to close the door. It was mesmerizing. That would never happen, but a man could dream…
“Dude,” Whoosh pulled up in Isobel’s car. I jumped in my side and followed him.
Isobel wasn’t talking.
How should I break the ice? I’m sorry I killed him. Naw. I wasn’t sorry at all. I’m sorry I killed him in front of you. That was the truth, but no woman wanted a lame apology like that.
“Are you okay? Hurt?” That was a good place to start.
