Free Jacked Up (Bowen Boys #4) by Elle Aycart Page A

fifties.
    “Yeah, Grease ,” she said, and began singing “tell me more, tell me more, did you get very far,” while typing something on her cell. Jesus Christ, talk about multitasking.
    They hit traffic on their way downtown, arriving with just a few minutes to spare. By then, Elle was tapping her knee nervously, her phone beeping constantly. Getting on Jack’s last nerve.
    “We’re here; now what?” he asked, parking.
    “We’re on the wrong side. We have to be at the corner of Fifth and Palmer.” She jumped out of the car and rushed ahead, dodging people.
    “Slow down,” he growled, catching up with her.
    “I’m going to be late. I should have driven. You’re frigging slow. A yellow light means speed up, not slow down.”
    Sure. If it had been up to her, they would have run half the red lights.
    That he was an excellent getaway driver, he kept to himself. “Risking one’s life when it’s not absolutely necessary is unacceptable.”
    She didn’t hear him, or if she did, she totally ignored him and kept blabbing, trying unsuccessfully to make headway. “Next time we’re taking René. I told you the I-15 was no good.”
    Jack grabbed her by her belt loop, bringing her to an abrupt halt and turning her around.
    “Jack, what the hell are—”
    He took her mouth, hard. “Calm down. Shut up and follow me.”
    She narrowed her eyes at him, her luscious lips shiny from him ravishing them. “This is becoming a habit already,” she muttered as he navigated the crowd much more efficiently. “Very unflattering.”
    No shit. Very unflattering—not for her, but for him. He didn’t seem to be able to stop kissing her. Twenty-four hours and he was already breaking all sorts of rules. No physical contact, the most important, had gone out the window. As if he didn’t have trouble enough keeping it down when she was around.
    He got her to the corner where she was supposed to meet God fucking knew who as the train-station clock struck six o’clock.
    “Now what?”
    “Now we cross the street,” she stated.
    What the fuck? They’d just come from that direction.
    She was toying with him.
    “Pet,” he growled, “I will not be played—”
    But he couldn’t continue because the light turned green, and when people started crossing, loud music blasted from speakers whose location he wasn’t able to pinpoint.
    We’re your Weather Girls
    Suddenly, everyone around him burst into dance, Elle included.
    Fuck. He was in the middle of a flash mob. Talk about going unnoticed.
    Of course Elle would be in a flash mob. Why wouldn’t she engage in one of the most useless activities in the world?
    He moved a bit aside, as the dancers got it on, their choreography very elaborate and coordinated as the song went on about raining men and umbrellas and God knew what else more.
    People were exiting their cars and other surprised passersby were clapping their hands to the rhythm of the song, all of them singing along.
    Jack felt like he was in a fucking movie. He would have been more comfortable in the middle of a bombardment.
    … every specimen! … rough and tough and strong and mean…
    At those last words, Elle searched Jack’s eyes, their gazes colliding.
    She had that irritating smirk on her face. Daring him. And then she winked at him.
    Jesus, she was gorgeous. With those expressive eyes and that long dark hair. The hourglass figure, the boobs, the ass. The long legs. The cheekiness.
    And that uniform. With that ridiculous yellow scarf around her neck and that skintight, formfitting short jacket. The skirt riding high on her thighs while she danced. Sexiest stewardess he’d ever seen.
    Jack reached for the antacids in his pocket. Man, now that he was with her twenty-four seven, his ulcer was acting up and he was running out of pills.
    He stood there, spellbound, soaking her in. Every one of her movements. It didn’t help that she seemed to be dancing just for him. Oozing sex appeal and that in-your-face disposition of