“Fuck you, Sinner. You thought you could keep her to yourself? I’m not finished with her yet.” He opens the passenger side, pushing her into the car. “Get in, baby; we’re goin’ for a ride.” He laughs and slams the door.
Rounding the car, he gives me his middle finger the entire time. I’ve pissed in his Cheerios, and I haven’t the faintest idea how to stop him from leaving without putting a bullet in either him or that too-fucking-expensive piece of metal he’s stolen. I can’t do either without repercussions. Fuck, it sucks being the rational one sometimes.
The moment he’s in the driver’s seat, the engine cranks, and he’s flooring it to the point rocks spray across the side of the trailer, and I jump inside to grab my wallet. Shoving the leather fold into my back pocket, I run like my ass is on fire to my bike. I can’t get out of here as fast as he can, but eventually, I make it out to the main road.
Shifting, my speed increases faster, the speedometer shooting higher. Eventually, I get to 140, and they’re nowhere in sight. Saint probably has that car over 200 miles per hour. I’ll be lucky if they don’t wrap that death trap around a telephone pole before I can catch up.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! I should’ve known he’d figure out where I was this entire time. I believed I was sneaky; I was actually a damn fool, underestimating him.
Let’s hope this Russian is as easy to work with as his cousins are. I’ve heard stories of how he was a ruthless undercover cop and then went rogue, joining the family business. His cousins are the Russian Mafiya, and Saint has just stolen his fucking car. Viking is going to be enraged if this doesn’t blow over.
And he has Jude...