Silence

kissing her. “Let me guess. You’ve never been on a Ducati Streetfighter.”

There went that chin again, angling higher. “How would you know that?”

“Ride one once, and that’s all it takes. You’re hooked.” He hitched his thumb at the exit. “Now or never.”

“I don’t run off with guys I’ve known all of three seconds.”

“And a guy you’ve known, say, twenty seconds? He stand a better chance?”

To his surprise, she laughed. He liked the sound of it, and against his own good judgment, he wanted to make her do it again.

“Actually,” she said, smiling with more ease, “that guy would drastically reduce his chances. Twenty is my unlucky number.”

“And your lucky number?”

She bit her lip, debating answering.

Over the top of her head, Patch saw Rixon emerge from the restroom pressing a folded square of toilet paper to his nose. Patch lifted his hat and scrubbed his hair in frustration. That was quick, even by Rixon’s standards.

“Is it between one and ten?” Patch asked on a stroke of inspiration.

She nodded.

“Hold the number behind your back. I’ll guess it. If I guess right, you and I go for a ride.

Doesn’t have to be tonight,” he added in response to the skepticism flooding her expression. “Next time I offer you a ride on my bike, say yes. It’s that simple.”

She held his eyes a long moment, then relented with a confi-dent shrug. “You have a one in ten chance of guessing right. I can handle those odds.”

How many fingers is she holding up? he called to Rixon’s mind.

Hearing him, Rixon looked up and his face split into a grin. I leave you alone for five minutes, and you’re already chasing skirts?

Fingers? Patch repeated.

What’s in it for me?

Next time we fight, you get to give me the bloody nose.

Get to? Rixon tipped his head back, silently laughing. I’ll happily remind you of an occasion just last week when I nearly punched out one of your teeth.

“Well?” the redhead prodded Patch. “Telepathy skills getting rusty?”

Tomorrow night you call the shots, Patch bargained.

Anything I want? Even if it includes terrorizing underage Nephilim?

Patch sighed. Anything.

All right, mate. You’re on. She’s holding up eight fingers. But keep the flirting to a minimum, will you? Seven minutes in heaven with Nurse Vee are up. I’m ready to roll.

Patch closed his eyes, tightening his face to suggest concentration. He opened one eye, staring down speculatively at the redhead. “Let’s go with … eight?” He said it with just enough uncertainty to make it believable.

The redhead’s mouth dropped. “No way.”

Patch rubbed his hands together, genuinely enjoying himself. “You know what this means. You owe me a ride, Nora.” Her name was a mistake. He’d agreed to treat her with cold-blooded detachment, limiting all references to her to the redhead. He didn’t think he was in danger of an emotional slip, but he was dealing with a beautiful girl. He’d learned his lesson once, hence the safeguard.

“You cheated,” she accused.

His smile widened. She didn’t sound that disappointed, and she knew it.

He played along, raising his shoulders, a display of innocence. “A bet’s a bet.”

“How did you do it?”

“Maybe my telepathy isn’t rusty after all.”

Rixon walked up, clapping him on the back. “Let’s hit the road, Jack.”

“Where’s Vee?” the redhead wanted to know.

On cue, the blonde emerged from the restroom, slumped against the doorjamb, pantomimed her own erratically beating heart, and mouthed ooh-la-la.

“What did you do to her?” the redhead asked Rixon.

“Put a smile on her face. There’s more where that came from,” Rixon added, and Patch shoved him toward the doors.

“Take it easy,” Patch told the redhead reluctantly, not ready to give up talking to her, but not wanting to impress any more of her on Rixon’s memory. For the time being, he wanted to keep who she really was to himself.

The redhead blinked. “So I guess I’ll see you around,” she said, wearing a what just happened here? expression. Given the circumstances, he should ask himself the same thing.

“Absolutely,” Patch answered. Sooner than she thought. Later tonight he planned on making house calls. First to the blonde, and then to the redhead.

If tonight had happened seven or eight months down the road, the timing would have been perfect. As it was, he had to erase their memories. He felt a jolt of regret at needing to wipe the redhead’s memory. He wanted her to remember tonight. He wanted her to remember him.

He imagined sacrificing her — a thought he’d turned over in his head a hundred times before — but the image stumbled. For the first time he looked beyond himself — seeing her. Not only did he plan to kill her, but he had it in his mind to betray her first. What would she think of him if she knew? It occurred to him to drag her outside now and get it over with. The image flared in his mind, impulsive and tempting, but he forced it aside. If he could do it now, he could do it tomorrow.

But his hesitation bothered him. Something told him killing her wasn’t going to be easy. He hadn’t helped his cause by flirting with her and, worse, enjoying it. More than he was ready to admit.

In an effort to refocus his thoughts, he shut his eyes briefly and pictured the end goal. Once he sacrificed her, he’d have a human body. It wasn’t complicated. Anything that stood in his way, including his own inner turmoil, was irrelevant.

Without thinking he turned, stealing a private look at her. He’d only meant to see her face one last time, but to his surprise, she was watching him, too, with a question in those exquisite gray eyes that would haunt him.