Page 8 of Executing Malice

It’s here that the universe fails me.

My grand escape, my smooth exit is shattered by reality when I spin on my heels and walk straight into oncoming traffic.

Nearly.

I nearly become a Leila pancake, if it wasn’t for the arm that clamped down around my middle. The yank that jerked me back, straight into a hard, solid chest.

The world takes a moment to fully adjust as my heart catapults in my chest. My lungs clap around the gasp I barely get past my lips as the hold around me tightens.

Ahead, the car that nearly hit me swerves to a stop. The driver rolls down the window and shouts my name. But I barely hear it. I can barely focus on anything when he’s holding me cradled against his chest. One big, gloved hand is splayed across my abdomen, pinning me in place while I stare up into the glossy visor reflecting my face. My wide eyes, parted lips. My confusion and something I can’t put a finger on, except I shouldn’t have it there.

“Careful.” The voice falls close to my ear. Too close. Too loud despite the plastic between us. “I can’t irritate you if you’re dead.”

“Who says you irritate me?”

Maybe it’s my imagination, my near-death experience, but I think his hold tightens.

“Don’t tease me. I might get the wrong idea.”

Despite my annoyance with him, I have to bite back my amusement. “What kind of—?”

“Leila!”

I’m saved from saying something potentially mortifying by the sound of Mr. Singh calling my name. He’s standing outside of his car, holding up traffic, waiting for my response.

“Sorry about that, Mr. Singh,” I call, unable to take my gaze off the masked weirdo making my brain fuzzy. “I’m fine.”

The biker’s head tilts back like he’s peering down his nose at me. “I agree.”

Cheeks blazing all over again, I turn my head to watch Mr. Singh wave at me before getting back into his car. The small caravan continues on its way, leaving me to face my mystery biker once more.

I pull out of his hold, careful not to step into traffic a second time.

“You should stop parking here,” I tell him, all joking aside. “You pissed off the wrong people and they will get you arrested, or worse.”

His arms fold over his chest. “Skelatorand her crew of garden gnomes?”

Despite the gravity of the situation, I snort a laugh. “You don’t want to mess with them. They will cut you at the knees. They’re not playing around.”

“Sexy. I love a good foreplay.”

This guy can’t be real.

“They’ll dig up your entire life,” I warn, trying my actual best to save him. Fuck if I know why. “They probably already know your blood type, shoe size and the color of your underwear.”

His arms drop. His hands settle on the front of his bike as he leans towards me.

“What underwear?”

Don’t look. Don’t look, Leila!

My gaze flicks down to his dark cargo pants with its millions of pockets and a thick leather belt for a split second. Barely more than a blink.

“I saw that, you little pervert.”

“I didn’t!” I snap, heat crawling up my neck.

“You absolutely did. That was a full-on underwear reconnaissance mission. I feel vulnerable and exposed.”