Spitfire in Love (Chasing Red 3)

I tamped down the anger and tried to concentrate on what he was saying.

“You know, it completely slipped my mind,” he began. He sounded like he just woke up. “It’s not Saturday today, is it?”

I kept rubbing the scratches, hoping they’d disappear. “You’re such a genius.”

“I hear that all the time.” He paused. “Give me a ride to school?”

“You dying?”

“Don’t think so.”

I blew out a breath when I spotted a rip on the leather seat. “Then no. I’m not giving you a ride.”

“My bike’s at the shop.”

Where mine was going to be very soon.

He cleared his throat. “And I left my car at the club last night. Took a cab this morning.”

He sounded guilty. That meant he had slept at some girl’s house again, took a cab to get back to his place, and hadn’t bothered picking up his car.

“Actually, I changed my mind,” he drawled. “I am dying and—”

Whatever he was saying was drowned out by a series of horn honks blaring behind me. I turned around just in time to see a beat-up Honda Civic speeding toward me like a bat out of hell.

It happened so fast. I yelled, jumping back to avoid getting clipp

ed, and bumped into my bike in the process. I could only watch in horror as my motorcycle fell over with a loud crash.

There was a sound of metal bouncing against pavement. I looked to my right. It was my side mirror.

My mouth opened in shock, but nothing came out.

I stood dumbly and watched as the Civic came to a full stop, brakes screeching like a banshee, two houses down, across from my place. It idled for a few seconds before it reversed like a jet to the house across the street from mine.

I could feel my body bracing for a fight, my anger so close I could taste the bitterness of it.

What came out of it was a tall, willowy brunette ready for war. She wore some sort of uniform—a green dress shirt and slacks, her long honey-brown hair down her back—and she marched to the front door like she was going to give someone a come-to-Jesus talk.

She rang the doorbell incessantly, and when that wasn’t answered after ten seconds, she started banging on the door with her fists.

Spitfire was the first word that came to mind. What a spitfire.

I had been living in my place for a couple of years now, but I kept to myself and especially stayed away from my neighbors. I’d only ruin their lives if I let them too close. It was easier this way.

I had no idea who lived there, but this girl clearly was going to eat that poor person for breakfast.

The door finally opened to reveal a frail old man with a cane. He looked like he’d be toppled over by a gust of wind. He wore a checkered shirt with suspenders and boxers, like he had forgotten to put on his pants before answering the door. Not surprising, since it was way too early in the morning.

What in the hell could her business be with the poor old-timer?

I could tell she wasn’t expecting him to open the door. She stepped back, hesitant. I couldn’t hear their words, but she seemed to be apologizing. When she finished, the old man pointed at the house next door.

She must have gotten the wrong house.

I couldn’t help but laugh.

Looking contrite, she walked away with her head bowed low. When she raised it, the look in her eyes had transformed from penitent to billowing fire. Interesting.