Floored by Ainslie Paton Read Free Book Online Page B

it. She forgot to guard her tongue. “I’m sorry. Did you want to hire a car? I’m afraid I’m not available.”
    “Don’t be cute, bitch. Do as you’re told. Pop the boot.”
    ‘Woman’ was bad enough, but ‘bitch’. She folded her arms and stared him down. No point trying to be invisible, she was the centre of his attention. “I don’t think so.”
    He grunted, leaned into the car and made it bounce.
    She could’ve been home scrubbing the floor. Instead the lure of easy money had her facing off with a gorilla of a man in a quiet suburban street while her client did something illegal in a house across the way, and was taking his time about it. It occurred to her now that if she let him get back in the Statesman she’d be some kind of getaway driver. That’s all she needed to compound her crimes.
    She should get in the car and drive away. Like pronto. There was nothing stopping her and she’d been paid. Her bikie would lose his fruit cake, but so what. This man obviously knew her bikie so he could give him a lift to his fake MacIntosh Street home.
    While the big guy stalked around the car, she got in and locked the doors. He came to her door and tapped on the glass. She ignored him and started the engine. He moved to the front of the car and planted himself, tree trunk thick legs wide apart, immoveable like a Morten Bay Fig.
    She beeped the horn at him and he laughed. It did sound pathetic. Like the honk of a circus clown’s nose against the ear-splitting blast from a giant’s roar. She saw her bikie leave the house at a dead run. He noticed the big guy and didn’t like it. He came across the front yard making straight for them. She should put the car in reverse and back out. Leave them both here to sort out their differences.
    Her bikie shouted. The other guy spun to face him. There was a blur of movement and the two of them were fighting. The giant had a knife. Her bikie was bleeding. He backed up and put the saddlebag down on the road behind him. He looked at her through the windshield. He was trying to tell her something—was it to run or to stay?
    If she pulled out now she’d be safe, away from this mess. But blood was dripping down her bikie’s arm, soaking his black t-shirt. She popped the locks using the fob so the headlights flashed once. Both men moved fast. She revved the engine. Both went for the saddlebag. But her bikie faked the move. He spun back, grabbed the front door handle, wrenched the door open and flung himself inside.
    “Go.”
    She pressed the accelerator, but held the brake. “But…” The giant was standing in front of the car holding the saddlebag. He had an arm outstretched, two fingers in a vee pointing at them. Targeting them.
    “He’ll move.”
    “But…”
    “Floor it!”
    She let go the brake and the Statesman shot forward, the big guy stepping easily out of the way. He was laughing as though this was the most fun he’d had all day.
    They were doing ninety K’s from a standing start, the engine roaring, down a suburban street. Fetch, if that’s what his name was, had taken off his leather vest and t-shirt. He was wrapping his wounded arm in the shirt. He barked, “Left,” and she took the turn.
    “Are we in a car chase?” There was no bike behind them.
    Fetch was watching the side mirror. “Nope.”
    “Can I slow down?”
    “Nope.”
    “We’re in a car chase.”
    “Nope. We’re just being efficient.” He was military precision, with the way he was watching behind them.
    “Can I be efficient at a slower speed?”
    “In a mo. Go right.”
    She took the turn. They were in a car chase no matter what he said. She was going to get arrested, and Justin would find her, and she’d go to jail. Like father like daughter, except she really was guilty. She gripped the wheel. She had to keep it together or she’d be a road statistic instead of a prison one. She focused and drove and tried not to watch the rear-view overly much. Eventually he said, “Slow up.