Page 129 of Truck Stop Tempest

“Right now? In the car?”

“We’ll be at the airport in thirty minutes.”

“Airport?”

He only nodded, scratching his beard to hide his grin.

“You’re making me nervous.”

I’d never been so goddam nervous. Sweaty palms. Nausea. Hot flashes. Hundreds of times I’d danced with Lady Death, and never had I experienced such unease.

Fuck, I hoped the trip wouldn’t blow up in my face.

Tuuli’s left heel bounced over the top of her right foot, her hands pressed to the glass, that sexy-as-fuck halo of hair falling in wispy tendrils around her face. “I can’t believe I’m in Vegas.”

I couldn’t believe my luck. My church girl in the City of Sin. Aphro-fucking-disiac on heavenly crack.

She turned, the loose fabric of her dress moving with her, the hem skimming the top of those creamy thighs. “What are we doing here?”

I met my beauty where she stood, shoving my hands inside my pockets to hide the tremble. “Before you become an official college student with your nose buried in a book twenty-four-seven, I want you to myself for a couple of days.” Lie. Lie, lie, lie.

“This is the best surprise ever.” She rose on her toes and pulled me in for a kiss, pressing those barely covered breasts against my chest, calming my storm with her breezy spirit.

I cupped her ass and squeezed, sneaking a grind before letting go. “This isn’t the surprise. Come on. We have an appointment.”

Those gorgeous blue eyes blinked up at me. She slid her fingers through mine and headed for the door, not a lick of fear or doubt on her face, shoulders relaxed, rockin’ the shit out of that sweet dress.

When we exited the elevator, I wrapped an arm around her shoulder, eased her through the crowd, out the main entrance, and into the back of our waiting limo.

Two blocks from our destination, I broke out in a cold sweat. When we pulled into the lot, I flew out of the car and dry-heaved.

I could do this. I could fucking do this. Breathe in. One, two, three, four. Out. One, two, three, four.

When my head stopped spinning and my vision cleared, I looked up to find Tuuli staring, eyes worried, at the sign. FULL TANK TATTOO.

Before I could change my mind, I grabbed her hand and led her inside. The owner of the shop, Mick “Jackknife” Owens, came around the counter. “Moretti. Jesus H Christ. How long has it been?”

“Good to see ya, Mick.” I grabbed his hand. We did the chest bump, shoulder pat before he pulled me into one of his signature bear hugs.

The guy stood six-three and carried his hard-earned bulk like a seasoned warrior. His handlebar mustache blended into a full, black beard that nearly reached his chest.

He let me go and pulled a shredded Metallica T-shirt over his bare chest. “This must be the lucky lady.” Mick gave Tuuli a hearty handshake. “Mick Owens. Pleasure to meet you.” His deep, throaty timbre fit the persona to a T. From bald head, to the leather pants and biker boots, the guy was bad-ass-biker, don’t-fuck-with-me personified.

Tuuli stared at him. Unblinking.

I cleared my throat. “Mick, this is Tuuli.”

Mick shot me a questioning glance, then nodded in understanding. “Well…let me see what we’re working with here.”

I dropped a kiss on her head and removed her cardigan.

Tuuli’s pale face turned ashen. I shot her a wink and held her gaze, offering as much assurance as I could in my mild state of fear. Mick circled her and pulled the strap of her dress aside. With thick fingers, he traced her tattoo.

“Wait.” She shook her head, the shock wearing off. “What are we doing? A tattoo?”

I stepped into her line of vision and tapped her chin. “Only if you want one. Mick here’s the best artist in the business. You want that hate symbol covered, he’ll turn it into something beautiful.”

Her eyes welled, ripping my guts to shreds. “Really?”

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