Page 9

CHAPTER 9

Birdie

“Mrs. Abel, are you okay?” Tristan Morra asks.

Eyes wide, I stare at him in his biker clothes, unable to comprehend what’s happening. Then my head whips between him and the pepper spray I’m aiming at…nothing.

His gaze follows the same path. “Mrs. Abel?”

“Someone is following me,” I say.

His posture changes, fully alert, and his stare darts around. “Did you see where they went?”

I just shake my head.

“The sound of my bike must have scared them off. They wouldn’t have gone far, though.” He pulls a gun out of the back of his pants and steps in the direction where I was pointing the can. “Wait here. Get that mace ready. If you see anything, call 911.”

“Wait. Do you have another gun?”

“Do you know how to use it?”

“Yes.”

He opens his jacket and hands me a Glock. I shove the pepper spray can in my pocket and hold the gun, and then he starts down the street.

The last few minutes play in my head on repeat. Someone was there. I heard the footsteps. I ran. They followed. When I stopped, they did, too. I aimed the pepper spray at them, but…they weren’t there. No one was there.

No one but Tristan Morra.

“I didn’t find anything, Mrs. Abel,” Morra says, and I flinch. He approaches, a creature cut from the canvas of the night. A dark angel or a devil in disguise? My grip squeezes the gun.

He puts his weapon back in his pants. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I swallow. “I didn’t see anything on the other side of the street either.”

“Are you okay?” He comes closer. “You look so shaken.”

I take a step back. “What were you doing here?”

His brows hook, but then realization hits his face. He points behind me. “My hotel. It’s three blocks away.” He reaches inside his pocket, and I take another step back. “Here’s the keycard. It has their number. You can call to verify.”

I stare at the keycard, Madisson Inn logo printed on it—a hotel I know is three blocks away because I stayed there a couple of times—and curse myself under my breath. “I’m making a fool of myself again. You must think I’m crazy.”

“Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence—whether much that is glorious—whether all that is profound—does not spring from disease of thought—from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect.”

“Quoting Poe on this dreadful night? A simple no would suffice next time.”

“Next time? Well, here’s another quote from another writer, whom I think is one of the most talented, brilliant artists of our generation, and not crazy at all. This is the last time we’ll ever cross paths, Mr. Morra. Now, get out of my house and never come back .”

I bite my lip on an apology I can’t seem to verbalize. “And yet here we are.”

“Almost like destiny. Do you believe in destiny, Mrs. Abel?”

“Destiny can be rewritten.” I hand him his Glock. “Thank you for trying to save me tonight. It looks like it was all in my head. I troubled you for no reason.”

“But there is also always some reason in madness.”

Nietzsche. “You read a lot, Mr. Morra.”

“Thanks to you…and audiobooks. They’re a dyslexic man’s best friend.” He smiles. I can’t ignore how charming he is. Be it in a suit in the middle of the day or a biker attire in the embrace of the night, Tristan Morra is a dangerously attractive man.

He gives me a spare helmet from his bike. “Let’s get you home, Mrs. Abel.”

I scowl at it. “I…I don’t think that’s—”

“There’s no way in hell I’ll let you walk by yourself when you thought someone was following you. I will be your ride home.”

“That’s not up to you to decide.”

He pushes the helmet over my head and buckles it, his scent, leather, musk and a hint of spicy cologne penetrating my nostrils, shifting the ominous energy that has been coursing my body into something more…dreaded. An uninvited delight is as frightening as fear itself. “I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“You can’t force me to ride with you.”

There’s a glow in his eyes as he holds my gaze and cocks a brow at me. “Hop on, Mrs. Abel.”

“Is that an order, sir?” I mock with a salute.

“No, ma’am. It’s a request.”

“Can you, at least, say please?”

His lips twist with a smirk. Suddenly, his hands are on my waist lifting me and placing me on his bike. “Please.”

A gasp escapes me, the only form of protest I manage to push out before he straddles the bike and revs the engine.