Gloria wheeled on Blade. “Girl, you’re a hot mess tonight. What’s gotten into you? I’m not about to let you start a brawl. Not again.”
            “I-I didn’t mean to—”
            “I’m just trying to earn a living, and bartending at Gators isn’t exactly my dream job.” Gloria took hold of Blade’s arm and pulled her close. “The last time you were here, I almost got canned. You and that Brit, taking off and leaving me to explain to the cops why there were several people with injuries. No wonder you’re here alone. Get it together and consider yourself 86’d.”
            Blade couldn’t argue. Her life was crap, and she had only herself to blame. The inheritance from her mother should have helped; Vivienne had left her millions in investments and an estate in Tuscany. But Blade couldn’t rest easy until Alec was found. Her need for justice had turned into an obsession.
            After paying her tab and slipping a fifty-dollar bill into Mick’s breast pocket, she stepped outside into the fresh air and stood by her motorcycle, parked at the curb. It was still relatively warm outside, although a cool breeze lifted the tendrils of hair that had escaped from her ponytail.
            Gloria’s words hit home. Instead of celebrating her birthday with Chase and the Soldati, the people who had offered her a home and a purpose, here she stood in New Orleans again, like a broken record repeating itself. Had she subconsciously hoped that Alec would be here?
            What she wanted most was to sink into her bed and sleep without the nightmares that had come back in full force since the explosion in Gstaad. Thankfully, her apartment was only five miles away. She knew calling a cab was the smart move. Her adoptive mother would be alive today if the drunk driver who’d slammed into her had made that decision. 
Blade ran a finger along the shiny red finish of her Ducati Streetfighter, weighing the risk. If she left the bike behind, it might not be here in the morning. Throwing a long leg over the leather seat with practiced ease, she fastened the strap of the helmet beneath her chin, turned the key, and pressed the start button.
            “Easy does it,” she whispered to the bike, as she pulled out into the near empty street, her mind already on autopilot. Rather than take the freeway, she’d take the slower side streets through the Garden District, with its oak-shaded lanes and opulent mansions. There was something otherworldly about the place that captivated her. And it felt like home.
            She cruised slowly, allowing the night air to clear her head. Then, a flicker of light caught her eye in the rearview mirror—headlights, distant but closing in. She pulled to the right, expecting the SUV to go around her, but the lights became brighter, closer. 
Damn, they were going to rear-end her! 
With a flick of her wrist, she throttled the engine. The powerful bike surged forward, creating a twenty-foot gap between her and the SUV.
            The residential district blurred past her, wrought-iron balconies and streetlights becoming indistinct streaks of color, but the space between her and the SUV didn’t grow. Someone wasn’t just following; they were bearing down on her. With her heart thumping hard, Blade considered her options and decided to turn left onto Washington Avenue, but at this speed, it would take all her coordination to not flip the bike.
            As she began to slow and lean into the turn, the SUV’s bumper clipped her rear tire, sending her and the bike flying out of control. The Ducati barely avoided a large oak tree and slammed into the porch of a small single-story home. At the last second, Blade threw herself free but landed hard—driving all the air from her lungs. Dogs began to bark as motion sensor security lights illuminated the yard.
            Blade blinked once, twice, her gaze finally settling on the rear wheel of the motorcycle, still spinning. With effort, she turned her head to see a dark SUV stop briefly before speeding away just as the front door of the home opened. Blade lay still, listening to the sound of sirens in the distance.
            “Hey, girl, can you hear me?” asked an elderly man, his dark legs poking out from beneath a flannel robe hastily tied at the waist.
            “It wasn’t,” she began, swallowing hard. “Not . . . an accident.” 
            “What did you say?” He bent over to hear her better.
            She fought against the dizziness that threatened to pull her under, but the world spun wildly, and then, mercifully, everything went still.



NannettePotter
www.nannettepotter.com
Author of Pierce the Darkness