that.
"So you don't need me to call an ambulance? Or... or the cops?" Pete asked again and I felt myself pale. My current ID would not stand up to the police's assessment. I shook my head at him to force my words home.
"I'm positively fine. Happens all the time," I said, my smile becoming more natural.
"It does?" he asked, stunned.
"Well, not so much the nearly being run over part, but you know what I mean," I mumbled, feeling the situation again fall from my clasp. I needed to get things under control, lose Pete, ditch saviour, and catch the bus which had just rounded the corner of the street. "Um, don't worry about me, I'll be fine. Gotta go," I said, starting to head towards the bus stop down the street.
"Do you need a lift somewhere?" Pete asked in a voice that definitely sounded like he wanted me to say no. I obliged.
"Nah, it's all groovy," I attempted my new persona again. It felt stilted and wrong. Bad vibes surrounded Chrystal, which was a shame, because I needed her ID more than ever now.
"Ah, OK, then," Pete said, a little uncertainly. "As long as you're sure."
Shit, this guy was persistent. "It's all good, my friend. No worries." There, that sounded more like a hippy-dippy chick. Maybe this could work after all.
I crossed the street, hearing Pete's door on his car shut and the Ute start up. I waved merrily as the vehicle passed by. The bus stop sign was only a couple of feet away, the bus still down the street. Things were going to work out just fine. I came to rest next to the sign and waved out to the bus driver as he came into focus. I felt my heart rate begin to settle, my breathing even out. I even began to play with the beads in my hair.
"You're not gonna say thanks," that deep, gravelly voice sounded right behind my shoulder.
I jumped, made a little squealing sound and rounded on my saviour, who I should never have let out of my sight. Shit, shit, shit. I was so dropping the ball here, Dad would not be impressed.
"Sorry, thank you," I mumbled, flicking my gaze at the lumbering bus, as it stopped in front of a friggin' stray dog as it crossed the street. A horn sounded as the mangy thing sat down to lick its nether region. Panic welled up my throat again.
"At least tell me your name," my saviour asked, leaning against the bus stop sign, letting his gaze wander down the length of my frame. He couldn't have seen much, certainly not as much as Abi Merchant's clothes showed. Chrystal Kerr was all about freedom; the flowing drape of a long skirt, the simple drop of a tie-died peasant shirt. But, from the looks of his heavily lidded eyes, my saviour saw something else.
The panic shifted, turning into something entirely different, but no less frightening. A blush rose up my cheeks. His eyes tracked it, the edges of his lips lifting ever so slightly at the sight.
"I'm sorry, but I have to go," I attempted to deflect, throwing a frantic glance towards the still immobile bus.
"I can give you a lift, if you need one," he offered, his voice running over my body like work-hardened hands; hot, rough and entirely too addictive.
"I'm fine with the bus," I insisted, willing the bus to hurry up. I heard the engine rev, as the bus began to move again. I let a small sigh of relief out.
"So, what's a girl like you doin' in a neighbourhood like this?" he asked, his chocolate brown eyes on mine.
I raised an eyebrow, somehow thinking the question was out of place, for one of Roan's men. I studied him again, committing every aspect of his appearance to my memory. This was one I'd have to be careful of. If he was Roan's, then Roan was acting out of form. Hiring a professional. And there were no two ways about it, this guy was a professional. He was too smooth, too practised, too relaxed, too unobtrusive. Hiding in plain sight. Roan's goons lacked that sort of finesse. He'd obviously out-sourced this man. He was upping his game at last.
Suddenly, all consuming fear washed my body, stole my breath, stilled my heart.