Part 19 (1/2)
”I'm going to ask you one more time. Is Sandra here?”
She shakes her head.
”Then why are you?”
She gestures to my hands, a plea to let her go.
My turn to shake my head. ”Not likely.”
A movement behind me and to my left draws my attention. I take a quick look. The skateboarder and his buddy have circled around and are coming back. They're whooping and pointing at us like we're an opening act for pro wrestling. It's drawing the attention of people coming out of the hotel.
Great.
I keep one hand on Tamara's arm while I open my car's pa.s.senger door with the other. I shove her inside. Then I s.n.a.t.c.h up Gloria's suitcase, run around to the driver's side and throw myself into the seat. In a second, we're hauling a.s.s away from the curb.
CHAPTER 41.
TAMARA HAS ONE HAND ON THE DASH, ONE AT her throat, ma.s.saging bruises already starting to form. ”You're insane, you know that? You almost killed me back there.”
Her voice sounds like it hurts to talk, like she's sc.r.a.ping the words across sandpaper. Good.
”Almost being the operative word. What were you doing at the hotel?”
”What do you think I was doing? I was there to see you.”
”Did Sandra send you?”
She shakes her head.
”So, what? You tracked me down to finish what you started in the bar?”
For a moment she looks puzzled at the question. Then she smiles. ”c.r.a.p. If I wanted to fight you, you'd already be bleeding in the dirt.”
I jab the side of her head with a finger. She flinches, recovers and then smiles again, ruefully this time.
”Okay. You got the best of me back there, but only because I didn't see it coming. Would've never happened otherwise.”
”Right. You do know what I am, don't you?” ”A hot-s.h.i.+t vampire? Is that supposed to scare me?”
”Unless you really are dumber than you look.”
Tamara stops ma.s.saging her throat. I feel her tense. She's tired of my insults, tired of the verbal sparring. ”So. You want to throw down? Pull the f.u.c.king car over and we'll do it.”
For one second, I actually consider it. Beating the s.h.i.+t out of Sandra's minion would really feel good. Except that I have no quarrel with Tamara. My quarrel is with Sandra.
”I don't want to fight you. I want you to tell me what you were doing sitting on the hood of my car. Think you can handle answering that simple question?”
Tamara is glaring at me. ”I was ready to tell you that back at the hotel. Before you dumped my a.s.s on the sidewalk. You didn't ask then, though, did you?”
”No,” I say through gritted teeth. ”You scratched my car with those f.u.c.king chaps. What were you thinking?”
”It's only a car,” she shoots back.
”Yeah, well, remember that sentiment when I drop-kick that Harley of yours from here to tomorrow.”
For once, she doesn't have a comeback. In fact, when I sneak a look at her, she has a pensive look on her face. I don't know what surprises me more, that she might be considering the possibility that I feel about my car the way she does her Harley or that she's capable of thinking at all.
I'll give her the benefit of the doubt. ”Let's start over. Why did you want to see me?”
But before she answers, she sits up in the seat. ”Where are we going?”
She's finally noticed that we're heading out of the city. I'd hopped on 5 North and now swerve toward the Interstate 8 East exchange. ”We're taking a drive to the mountains.”
”The mountains? Why?”
”I've got someone to see.”
”I don't want to go to the mountains.”
”I don't remember asking you. I had only two hours to get up there and back. You made me late.”
She snorts. ”You'll never make it in two hours. Not in this.”
”You insulting my car again?”
”Calling it like I see it. You want to make it to the mountains and back in two hours? I'll take you. On my bike.”
I look over at her. I know she's right. The Jag's fast. On the highway. Half the trip to the cabin is on back roads. Dirt roads. I barely had enough time to get to David's cabin and back before my run-in with Tamara. If I want to get into Jason's house, I have to be back here as close to two as possible.
I don't remember seeing Tamara's bike parked anywhere near my car. As that thought percolates, I realize I'm going to accept her suggestion. Why not? Now I know I can take her. She's not Sandra.
And I'm curious. She still hasn't told me why she's here.
”Where's your bike?”
She smiles. ”Pull off at the next exit and go back. I'm a block from the hotel.”
I do it, putting as much menace as I can into my tone when I say, ”You'd better not be f.u.c.king with me or . . .”
”Yadda, yadda, yadda,” she says. ”I know. You'll beat the c.r.a.p out of me and kick my bike. Christ, you vampires are all alike.”
It takes us exactly fifteen minutes to get back to the hotel, find Tamara's bike and prepare to head out again. In the car I told her where we were going so I swing behind her on the Harley, watch while she slips on her helmet and ask if she has one for me. Now safety is not a concern for me. If we crashed, it'd take my landing on a wooden fence post to hurt me, but there are helmet laws in California and getting stopped by a cop would be one more delay.
When I mention that to Tamara, she reaches into a saddlebag and hands me an orange knit cap, hand knit it appears, with head flaps. Along with a headset. ”So we can talk on the way,” she says.