Wild Thing (The Magic Jukebox Book 3) by Judith Arnold

Author:Judith Arnold [Arnold, Judith]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Judith Arnold
Published: 2014-11-03T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

“I have to go back to work,” Monica said, polishing off the last of her drink. She skimmed a couple of almonds from the top of the bowl of mixed nuts and popped them into her mouth, as if they would absorb the wine she’d consumed. But she wasn’t feeling light-headed. If she’d hoped the wine would dull her senses, it hadn’t.

Just as well. She did have to go back to work. God knew what shape Rose Cottage was in.

Ty chugged down his lemonade and stood to let her out of the booth. “I’ll take you,” he said. He gave Emma a regretful smile. “I wish I could give you a lift, too, but—”

“That’s okay,” she assured him. “I’ve got my own bike. The kind with pedals.”

The afternoon was balmy, the sky a rich blue with just a few wispy clouds trimming it like ribbons of lace. Ty escorted both women out of the bar. He and Monica waved Emma off on her bicycle, and then he led Monica to a small black motorcycle with enough chrome trim to make her retinas ache. What appeared to be a bike lock fastened two battered helmets to one of the chrome bars supporting the padded seat back.

It wasn’t much of a seat back, she thought with a twinge of apprehension. If she sat there, and the bike lurched forward abruptly, would she tumble over backward and hit the road? And while she was worrying, what about the odds of her falling off the side of the bike if Ty took a sharp turn? Not that there were many sharp turns between the tavern and the inn.

Forget about sharp turns. What if a car hit them? On the motorcycle they’d be utterly exposed. No roll bars. No chassis. No shatter-proof glass. No air bags. No seatbelts.

While she fretted, Ty unlocked the chain that held the helmets and handed her one. Surely this bubble-shaped blob of padded plastic wouldn’t keep her from dying in an accident. It wasn’t as if the magic jukebox had played a motorcycle song, like “Born to Run,” when her eyes had met Ty’s inside the tavern a couple of days ago. It wasn’t as if the jukebox’s magic extended to making people indestructible.

Ty shot her a grin as he strapped the other helmet onto his own head. His helmet was a glossy black, hers blood-red. Like the color her pulpy, smashed-in skull would be once they crashed.

He slung one long leg over the padded seat, then peered over his shoulder. “Climb on,” he invited her.

Don’t be a wuss, she scolded herself as she strapped her helmet on with faintly trembling hands. If they crashed and she died, she wouldn’t have to deal with the wrath of the Kolenko bridal party when they arrived at Rose Cottage next week and discovered gaping holes in the walls and a mysterious leak drip-drip-dripping down the pipes from a second-floor bathroom.

Mustering her courage with a deep breath, she straddled the thinly padded seat behind Ty.

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