Free To Catch a Vampire by Jennifer Harlow Page B

mind off the other problem. He slows a bit as we turn the corner but ignores the stop sign.
    “Are you trying to kill us?” I scream hysterically over the engine.
    “Calm yourself, my darling,” he shouts back. “I have never had an accident.”
    We round another corner, tilting so close to the asphalt my ankle glides an inch from it. “Slow down now!” I scream again.
    To my surprise, our speed drops by ten miles per hour. “My darling, you are about to crush in my chest.”
    With hesitation, I loosen my grip a little. “Then drive like a sane person!”
    “But I so enjoy you holding me close.”
    “And I so enjoy not being the star of Blood on the Highway .”
    He maintains speed until we hit traffic a moment later, the dreaded stop-and-go of worker bees on their way home from work. The drivers can’t see our faces behind the helmets, but I can see theirs. They are all the same with their SUVs, thinning or graying hair, and white shirts done up with hideous ties. They’re old enough to be my father, but they can’t take their eyes off my exposed thigh. Green with envy, no doubt. We look like a freedom fantasy come to life. Open road, leather, semi-hot chick on the back of the hog. The man to my left, even though no doubt talking to his wife on the phone, stares at my hiked up skirt at the area only my gynecologist should see. I wish he could see my glaring face. The light changes and we move to the next red one. The sweat drips down my back and cleavage.
    It continues like this for ten minutes: stop, stare, move a foot. The helmet might as well be a plastic bag wrapped around my face for all the breathing I can do. I flip the visor, taking in lung fulls of exhaust from the cars.
    “Are you alright, my dear?” Oliver asks, flipping his visor.
    “No,” I say in a huff. “It is a thousand degrees, I’m in leather, I can’t breathe, and the whole town is looking up my skirt. How much longer?”
    “If we continue like this, forty-five minutes. It is possible to arrive sooner …”
    “Then do it!”
    “As you wish.”
    The engine revs and we rocket off, narrowly missing the truck in front of us. The bike glides between the stalled cars, so close on either side I don’t know where they stop and my legs start. I asked for this, I know, so I can’t complain. I clutch onto Oliver as tight as I can, but bite my lower lip. Please don’t let us crash, please don’t let us —
    The red pickup a few feet ahead of us changes lanes. The motorcycle skips to a stop. I yelp and close my eyes. Oliver, unfazed, guns it again. I open my eyes as the truck clears. He is about five seconds from losing his driving privileges forever.
    We make it to Justice Way fifteen minutes later, pulling into a lot down the street for ten bucks an hour. First thing I do is pull down my skirt, then peel off my jacket. That’s better, but not by much. I can see the waves of heat rising from my skin. Carrying our helmets, we walk toward the Dallas field office of the FBI. From the outside, you would never think this place was FBI. It looks like a regular office building. The few people who filter out in their business suits and pantyhose unabashedly stare at us as we reach the door. Oliver ignores them, but I blush. I’ve never turned heads before. Don’t know if I like it.
    I pull my badge out of the hidden pocket of my purse, and Oliver takes his out of his coat. The tall, African American security guard touches his gun as we walk in. The hand moves back when he notices our credentials.
    “We have an appointment with Special Agent Michael Tully,” Oliver says.
    “Are you armed?” the guard asks.
    “Yes.”
    Thank goodness we don’t have to go through the metal detectors, or they’d have a field day as I take out all the knives from my bra. The guard waves us through to the man in the reception area sitting behind the bullet-resistant glass. He examines our badges and with a moment of hesitation calls Tully. “He’ll be down