Night Fury: First Act (Night Fury 1)

It needs me as much as I need it. I provide it love and care, and it provides me a place to get away.

Having picked all the ripe rewards from the bountiful vegetable patch, I decide it’s time to weed. One of my most hated garden jobs. Alas, it needs to be done, and if anyone else comes close to my garden, I start to hyperventilate.

Bob caught me on the way out this morning. He was sipping coffee in the kitchen when I came bounding in searching for bread to nibble on before I started my day. As soon as he saw me, a look of pride covered his features.

I’ll admit it—it was nice. It felt good.

I lost that look for two whole years, and I’ll be damned if it’s taken away from me again.

Smiling, I cut a piece of bread and half-filled a mug of coffee. Bob watched as I added three sugars and vanilla creamer to it. He winced, although smiling, and asked, “How you doing this morning, Cat?”

I knew he has referring to the night before and what I’d done, but truthfully, I hadn’t thought about it until that very moment, having been distracted by my fitful night’s sleep.

Wow. Are you so cold that you don’t even take a second to think about committing murder?

I lifted my head in thought, and mentally responded to myself with, Call me an ice queen, brain, ‘cause my care factor is zero.

And that was the absolute truth.

Marcel was a bad man doing horrifying things. If I hadn’t stopped him, who would? With a wife too scared to speak out, and a son who had been threatened with death on multiple occasions, chances were, Marcel would’ve been active in his crimes for years to come. The likely people who would’ve stopped him eventually would’ve been his wife or son, and quite frankly, I’m glad it was me, rather than one of them. I prefer to take this responsibility than have either of them pay for vengeance on a man who had it coming.

Chances are being responsible for his death may have haunted them. And I couldn’t care less about Marcel Dupont.

The only time he’ll be missed is when he isn’t there to help Father Robert with Sunday Mass by handing out Holy Communion and collecting donations to the church.

Marcel Dupont: parishioner by day, demon by night.

Trudging out of my heavy thoughts, I answered Bob truthfully with a small shrug, “I’m fine.”

His eyes trained on my face a long time, searching for deceit before he smiled again. “Good girl. Proud of you, Cat.”

On his way out of the kitchen, he hooked his hand behind my neck and pulled me forward to plant a fatherly kiss on my forehead.

The loud rumbling of an engine pulls me from my thoughts. Standing, I remove my gardening gloves and place a hand above my eyes to block out the midday sun. My brow furrows as I realise the thundering noise is coming from the barn.

Surely, there isn’t a job during the day. We never do jobs in daylight.

The large barn doors open, and out speeds a sleek, black, sporty motorbike. Even though I can’t see the driver’s face due to it being covered by a helmet, I don’t have to guess to know it’s Marco.

That body was in my dreams last night. It’s hard to forget. I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to.

My eye roll is subtle.

Of course, he has a motorbike.

The bike speeds up, and I expect it to careen past me, but instead, it slows.

Marco slows to a stop a few feet away from me, letting the engine of the bike idle. He slides the front of the helmet up, allowing me the view of his handsome face, and says loudly in way of greeting, “Pussy cat.”

My feet shuffle forward a step. “Afternoon, Marco.” My curiosity gets the best of me. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

His face bunches and his hand flies to his ear, letting me know he can’t hear me. I step forward, closer to him. Almost foot-to-bike, I ask again, “Where are you headed?”

Marco smirks. “I could hear you fine before, just wanted to ask if you wanted to head into town without yelling at you.”

Head into town?

With him?

I’m confused.

“Head into town...with you?” His expression doesn’t change at all, so I add, “On your bike?”

It’s then that he grins, and I have confirmation to my questions.

I quickly utter, “I’d better not.”

A flashback of last night’s dream assaults me hard and fast.

“Get on your hands and knees. Face the end of the bed.”

I fight a gasp as my cheeks flame. My shaking hand flies to my now-heaving chest.

Marco—still seated on his bike—leans closer to me. “That wasn’t a no.”

My feet step away from him in silent answer.

You killed a guy last night, but you’re scared of a man you work with because you had a hot dream about him? A dream he doesn’t even know about?

For once, my brain makes a good point. Standing taller, I step towards the bike again and announce, “Actually, I’d like to go to the library, if it’s not out of your way.”

Marco makes a stern thinking face before breaking out into a beaming smile. “Tell you what—I’ll drop you off at the library, do what I need to do, then I’ll come meet you there and we’ll get something to eat.”

“Okay. Sure.”

He stands from his still-idling bike, lifts the seat, and hands me the spare helmet. Robotically, I place the helmet on my head and climb on behind him, wrapping my arms around him. We speed away, and a final thought chills me to the bone.

Bob is going to kill me.

***

Never having ridden on a motorbike before, I silently curse myself for not wearing something warmer. Even though today is a nice day, I’m still freezing my butt off as Marco speeds along the dirt road to get to town.

Doing my best not to think about my arms wrapped around his taut stomach, I almost shriek in surprise when I hear a voice sound in my helmet, “Thanks for coming with me. I need an alibi for today.”

Oh, so that’s why he asked me to come with him.

Urging down the disappointment clenching my heart, I answer cheerfully, “No problem. I love the library.”

We spend the rest of the ride in a comfortable silence, and without thinking, I close my eyes and lean my helmet-covered forehead against his back. I haven’t noticed I’ve fallen asleep until Marco gently runs his thumb over the hand that grips his stomach. “Wakey, wakey, sleeping beauty.”

My body—not quite wanting to separate from my portable hot water bottle—squeezes his waist tighter as I snuggle deeper into his back.