Cat In A White Tie And Tails

Chapter 59

Motorcycle Melodrama

Matt’s heart rate at the moment was nothing he’d want to parade on a visit to his primary care physician.

The single headlight had stopped behind him. In the red glare of his brake lights—he’d kept the car in Drive, brake on—he could see the massive bulk of a heavy-duty cycle tilted on its kickstand.

The ride was in his left rear blind spot, but he heard the creak of leather through his slightly lowered driver’s-seat window.

A black helmet with a smoked plastic visor made the approaching rider into an alien in his side-view mirror.

Matt waited, ready to burn the Jaguar out of there at zero to sixty in 4.4 seconds, as advertised.

The rider passed the window and self-boosted up onto the car’s sleek front fender.

The bare-knuckled black leather half gloves came off one by one and hit the car’s hood.

Matt winced internally.

The helmet came off to sit atop them.

Matt watched the rider shake out her long black hair. Motorpsycho Medusa.

The hip-length leather jacket was unzipped to reveal the feminine version of a wife-beater undershirt, not in Marlon Brando white, but femme fatale black.

She crossed leather-clad legs, the lower booted foot swinging against the Jag’s front wheel well.

Matt breathed an invisible sigh of relief to see no weapons drawn … yet. He zoomed the window full down.

“So,” she said, leaning out over the hood to address him. “The frequent Chicago trips weren’t just to cozy up to the audience of The Amanda Show. You have family there, and here, be it ever so humble.”

“Most people have family,” he said, “unless, like in a melodrama, they’re separated at birth.”

His remark had hit the target dead-on. She slid fast off the fender, her boots hitting asphalt hard together. “You were separated at birth, from your so-called father.”

The last word curled off her lips with loathing.

He understood why Jesus had banished demons. Some people lived with them for so long, they became them. How did she know his family drama? A job for SuperMax.

Matt got out of the car to face her. It was hard to read expressions in the dark.

“You were a pariah,” she charged. “From birth, as I was.”

He kept an unemotional tone. “True, on the surface of things. Your childhood was living hell. I just had purgatory.”

“I know who told you about me.”

“I know who you really want to harass. Why bother with me?”

“You’re easier.”

“Maybe not.”

“Being Mr. Big-time Radio Headshrinker has gone to your own head. You think you can get into my mind? I can get into those crawly little places in your soul you don’t want to admit exist.”

“I guess I’m as entitled to ‘crawlspace’ as you are.” Matt thought of the two casinos where the security “crawlspace” had been invaded by death in the past couple years. That was a great metaphor for what was happening here.

“You don’t want to kill anyone … at least not right away,” he told her. “You like to play with your prey. This is Las Vegas. Let’s make a bet.”

“You, Mr. Careful, gamble?”

“Stay away from your other favorite targets and sign up for some personal counseling with me. I bet I can ‘reach’ your inner angel.”

She laughed delightedly. “You’re actually being sardonic, Mr. Ex-Priest. ‘Inner angel.’ Even you don’t believe that.”

He could sense her eyes searching his expression for underlying motives. He kept it noncommittal. She fed on extreme emotion.

“You’d see me secretly?” she asked. “Leave your precious fiancée in the dark?”

“You can certainly see me secretly any time you like,” he pointed out.

She edged closer. “You think you can save my soul.”

“I’d have to find it first.”

“What arrogance! Souls don’t exist, but guilt does. Do you want to know my bet?”

“Breathless about it.” He was already seeing his refusal to overreact had drawn her into his bargain. He would have felt a little like Satan if she hadn’t been playing the same role.

She pressed herself close, full frontal, her upraised hands at his sides. He controlled the urge to draw back or push away, but his fingers made claws, ready to repulse another razor-knife attack.

She whispered, “I’m betting I can unchain your inner devil. Your body will betray you before my lost soul will fail me.”

Her hands clapped to his sides. He resisted the instinct to grab her wrists to hold off any unseen weapon. Her raised knee slid up the inside of his thigh. She habitually won by making love–hate, not war.

Matt was betting Kathleen’s obsession to seduce would keep her from killing him … too soon anyway. This unholy bargain with a sociopath would test just how good he was, as a psychologist and a man.