Page 34 of The Vampire's Thirst
“We would have hit one sooner, but you flew by a turn. In fact, you added about an hour to the trip. So, about twenty miles this way. Also, we’ll be climbing and hanging over the edge of a mountain, but don’t ask me which direction to go. Oh, no. The little witch doesn’t know crap.”
“Stop whining. It’s better when you laugh. No wait. It’s better when you shut the fuck up.”
She crossed her arms under her eye-worthy chest, emitting an unlady-like snort. “Have it your way, fangtard.”
“You have a mouth, kid.”
“Chiara. Not kid. Not little witch. I have a name. Use it. Also, I’ll use whatever language I want. Besides, criticizing me is a pot-kettle-black thing. See the irony?”
Dax white-knuckled the steering wheel as he muttered. She was correct. Soon they were chugging up a mountain and crawling along a cliff-hanging edge. Dax wasn’t fond of heights, but he would plunge to his death before admitting it to the female thorn in his ass. In one spot, he was fairly sure the right back tire spun on air.
All the time, the little witch faced forward with a smug grin curling her lips, arms crossed, breasts plumped.
Once they descended the curve-hugging road, they came to a paved crossroad.
“Which way?” Dax blew out a relieved breath. Trying to hold his temper in check, he twisted toward the stubborn female.
After no response, he unfisted the wheel to twist in the seat, opening his mouth to drop fang. “Answer me. To Missoula. Which direction do I turn?”
Silence.
Dax combed fingers through his hair, snarling. “You can talk now.”
She arched her brows. “Who? Me? I’m supposed to shut the fuck up.”
“Not anymore. Speak, dammit. Which way?”
“The fangs and growls are a wasted effort. Turn right.”
Dax spun the wheel in the direction Chiara indicated. “Are you going to dole out information turn by turn?”
“Maybe. It depends on how much you piss me off.”
He mumbled under his breath, “Probably a lot.”
“What? I didn’t hear an apology.”
“An apology? What the fuck? I’m not sorry about anything.”
“You missed the turn back there.”
“Mutherfucker, witch.” The tires squealed as Chiara slammed forward when he pounded the brakes into the floor. He spun toward her, his jaw a chunk of cold steel. “This is serious. You have no idea what these males will do to you. Stop making this difficult.”
He hung a U-ey, mumbled curses, and turned at the junction.
“It all sounds disturbing, but I’m still waiting before I dole out directions,” she said with a smug tilt to her lips.
“Okay. I shouldn’t have told you to shut the fuck up. You bring out the worst in me. Now tell me where the hell I turn next.”
Chiara dropped her arms to the side. “Apology accepted. About three miles farther, go right.”
Dax couldn’t stop the growl rumbling from his chest and rolling across his lips.
Chapter Eight
Thelights were dim or burned out, but Miller Nash knew his escape route even in the dark. He climbed the chain-link fence and dropped to the other side. His boots hit pavement and kept on trucking as he turned left into another alley. When he opened a battered metal door, he legged it across the empty warehouse, his speed snowballing. He headed for the back. Outside at a nearby building, he jumped to bring down a fire escape ladder. Hand-over-fisting-it to the second floor, he flipped open a window and crawled through, charging out the door into a hallway where he took the stairs to an exit onto the roof. With a spurt, Miller cleared the roof and vaulted onto the next and the next buildings.
He’d planned the route earlier. Just one of the many escape paths to keep an ex-British secret service agent on his toes. Miller was never without a strategy, back-up money, extra ID, and a good pair of trainers. He hoped he wasn’t still living like this when he was an old man. He’d be three-legging it with his cane or, hell, maybe wheeling it in a power-driven chair.
