Ghost Dance (Tulsa Thunderbirds Book 3) by Catherine Gayle

I had to fight down the urge to roll my eyes at him. “I think some asshole stole it.” Because I was a freaking idiot.

 

     
     

    WHO THE FUCK steals a disabled woman’s car in the middle of a snowstorm? I’d been in that car. It wasn’t like the asshole could’ve gotten in and missed the fact that it had been modified.
    I didn’t want anything more to do with London Hawke—I’d told myself that I shouldn’t have to deal with her again after that night a week ago—but I couldn’t leave her sitting there in her wheelchair.
    Grinding my jaw together, I leaned across the seat and opened the door for her. “Get in.”
    “Why?” she demanded. Clearly, the damned woman was determined to be obstinate about everything.
    “Because it’s cold as balls and car is stolen. Get in.” I put my car in park and got out to help disassemble the wheelchair and put it in the backseat. It wouldn’t be as easy to maneuver things to lift it all behind her without the modifications she’d had made to her car, so I assumed she’d need some help.
    She glared at me when I reached her side, but she lifted herself into the seat. Maybe she had some sense, after all.
    “Tell me how to take it apart,” I said.
    Instead of telling me, she pushed a few levers and took the wheels off herself. I put the wheels in the back and then the body of the chair, then shut the door and returned to the driver’s seat.
    She was still glaring at me. Damn, but she was hot when she did that.
    I drove out of the parking lot and turned right, with the snow coming down harder than ever. Snow had never bothered me any, but it was like a unicorn around here—such a rarity that people acted like it had to be all in their imagination. I’d learned last season just how stupid these people could be when it came to winter weather. I’d hoped to do my business and get home before the roads got too bad, and before too many of the stupid people were trying to get wherever they intended to go for the next few days, but it didn’t look like that would happen.
    “Wrong way,” she said. “You need to turn around and go left.”
    “Police station is this way.”
    “I want you to take me to my brother’s house.”
    “Need to file police report.”
    “I can call them to report it.”
    I supposed she had a point about that. Not that I’d ever admit it to her. I found an open lot and used it to turn around. “Then call. And tell me where to go.”
    “Just get on the highway and stay on it for a while,” she said, taking out her phone and dialing a number. She explained what had happened to the officer on the other end of the line. Within a few moments, she’d hung up. “They said to get home first and then call to file the report. They don’t want people out in this.”
    We were still on the service road, about to enter the on-ramp, when I saw all the brake lights up ahead. Then a car on the highway swerved to avoid hitting someone in front of them and ended up in the ditch.
    “Maybe not the highway,” I said.
    “The highway will be safer than the side streets.”
    “Don’t think anywhere is safe.”
    She sighed, but then she pointed me toward another street up ahead. “Try taking a right at the light.”
    The light turned red before we reached it. I carefully braked, but without snow tires, we slid a lot more than I would have liked. The car came to a stop before we ended up in the intersection. A big pickup truck that had been waiting at the light had a hard time getting enough traction to move, and once he got started, he almost slammed into us.
    “How far your brother lives?” I asked. My house was only a couple of blocks away. The sooner I could get back there, the better. There were too many people in this city who didn’t know how to drive in this stuff, and I wanted to be as far away from them as I could get.
    “He’s about four miles northwest,” London said. “Takes less than ten minutes, in good weather.”
    But this wasn’t