WEEK 64: You’re a wild one, aren’t you?

Prompted by: Tiara “Kikyo” Giles

The crazy author says: Well, there ain’t a POV switch. Anticlimactic, eh?

I wake up cold.

And alone.

“Trace?”

All of a sudden, he’s hovering above me. Gone is the hospital gown. It’s been replaced by his usual James Dean attire.

“Where are you going?”

He presses a finger to my lips.

My eyes haven’t quite adjusted when I’m dragged to my feet. My legs are so wobbly I almost collide with a sleeping Tech during our quick escape.

Once we exit the room, he shoves me to the wall and scans the corridor in both directions. Maybe his pain meds are making him paranoid.

Yawning, I ask, “Are we sneaking into the maintenance room?”

He shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it across my shoulders.

I thread my arms through the sleeves and take a deep breath. Old, worn-in leather is now my new favorite scent. I guess again, “Going on a romantic trip to the Kwik-E-Mart?”

Fisting my collar, he forces me onto my tiptoes. His mouth brushes mine. It lasts only a second before he rocks back on his heels and holds up something between us.

I laugh as he puts the black knit beanie on my head and tugs it down to cover my ears. “Oh, we’re robbing the Kwik-E-Mart together. That’s sweet.”

He gives me a hard shake and grunts.

The Lucas brothers have never robbed a convenience store. They never even entertained the thought. Not once. It was strictly high roller casinos. Well, those and the odd foreign bank.

“You’re a wild one, aren’t you?” I tease.

A scowl appears, which I’d probably find cute under normal circumstances.

But not tonight.

Tonight, it looks painful.

“Don’t do that.” Cupping his cheek, my thumb skims the jagged row of sutures. I wipe away a tiny speck of blood and whisper, “It hurts me.”

The tension in his face completely vanishes. Like magic. He bends to kiss me for just a bit longer. His follow-up trick is producing a stolen set of keys. Damn wizard.

“He’s gonna be pissed,” I say.

With the sexiest smirk, Trace grabs my hand and takes off running.

We zip through the halls and slip past the automatic doors, crossing the parking lot…

To stop in front of a bright yellow Ducati.

He calmly unlocks the helmet from the seat and slides it right on top of my toque, securing the strap beneath my chin. Then swings a lean, muscular leg over to mount the bike before winking at me.

Resistance is futile.

I climb on behind him and loop my arms around his waist.

Twitch is gonna be really fucking pissed.