Page 11 of Deadly North
“You fucking him up isn’t going to teach him not to be a dick to women. It’ll just teach him to steer clear of bikers.”
Mack opens his mouth to respond, then shuts it again. “I hate it when you’re right,” he mutters.
I chuckle as he turns away.
The day progresses. I work, and Mack watches me from afar. An unspoken tension seems to grow between us, every time I glance over and our eyes meet. When the fair is over, I finish up with my last customer and start to pack up. Seconds later, I feel the heat of Mack’s body as he bends down beside me.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Helping you.” He reaches down and flips the lever on my customer chair like he’s done it a thousand times. “You don’t think I’m going to just stand over there and watch you do this by yourself, do you? What kind of a dick do you think I am?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to toss back one of the many insults I keep just for Mack Maxwell. But even I realize it would be unkind of me to do that when he’s helping me out. Together we both work getting stuff back into the bus, with me occasionally giving him a direction, which he takes without complaint.
I’m struggling to fold up my display table, which always gives me trouble, when Mack kneels down beside me to help. Our hands accidentally brush against each other. The brief touch sends a jolt of electricity through me, freezing me in place. Mack turns his face to me and our eyes lock. He’s closer to me physically than I have been to him in years — probably since I was a teenager.
I try not to focus on the way his tongue runs over his bottom lip. Or the way his Adam’s apple moves as he slowly swallows. “I got this,” he says huskily.
My nipples tighten. They actually, physicallytightenat the sound of his voice so close to my ears.Jesus.I jump to my feet, my body reacting almost before my mind can make sense of what’s happening to me.
My emotions are a vortex of confusion and denial. I busy myself with cleaning my equipment, avoiding eye contact. Mack watches me for a moment longer before finally standing and taking the table inside. He takes in the last of the boxes.
“Anything else?” he asks when he’s done.
“No, that’s it, we’re done!” I chirp, sounding far too cheerful. “You can go!”
“You sure you’re good, G?”
“Of course? Why wouldn’t I be?” I smile so wide my face feels like it’s going to crack. “Okay, bye then!”
Mack stares at me for what feels like an eternity. I keep the smile pasted on my face. Muttering to himself, he turns away and strides back to his bike. He gives me a one finger wave, then drives away without another word.
I let out a long sigh and close my eyes. God, that was uncomfortable.
Because as much as I hate to admit it to myself, not everything I feel for Mack is hatred.
Back in the bus, I fight to make my breathing go back to normal, and try to ignore the buzzing in my head and the sudden thrumming between my legs.
Which is when I see the Hitachi Magic Wand, sitting on top of a box.
Taunting me.
“Oh, shut up,” I mutter.
6
GIGI
I’m still feeling jittery about the way I left things with Mack when I pull the Body Bus into the driveway of the minuscule ranch home I rent in a tiny, forgotten pocket of south Minneapolis. The house is one of the many small dwellings that went up in this neighborhood in the wake of World War Two. With a footprint of far less than one-thousand square feet, it’s amazing to me that it was originally designed to hold an entire family. These days, it feels better suited for one single woman who isn’t too big on having a lot of stuff. I’ve lived here for a few years, and I love it so much that I’ve pushed off any thought of saving money for a down payment on a house. As if I could afford that, anyway.
Throwing the bus into park, I let out a little sigh of happiness that I’m finally home from this crazy day. As much as I love my job, I’m not naturally much of a people person. I can’t wait to just go inside, lock my door, and not have to perform for anyone until tomorrow.
And yes, before I leave the bus, I grab the Magic Wand, stuffing it into my bag like a dirty secret.
My next-door neighbor, Carrie Ann, waves a greeting to me as I start up my walk. Carrie Ann’s house is a carbon-copy of mine. She’s a single mom. She lives with her four-year-old daughter, London and her mom, Janice. Janice is nowhere to be found, but London comes sprinting up to me, with the joy on her face that only a young child can exude. “Hi, Gigi!” she yells, barreling toward me as I crouch down to intercept her hug.
“Hey, there! How are you today?”
“Good!” She beams at me. “Grammy and me went to the zoo today! We saw monkeys! And a tiger!”