Southwest Days (Semiautomatic Sorceress Book 2), Kal Aaron [book recommendations based on other books .txt] 📗

be on the phone with the cops in fifteen seconds. Bright yellow Ducatis kind of stand out, even in Scottsdale. The cops would love the chance to arrest someone stealing something that flashy.”

“You’re not calling anyone.” The man tossed his screwdriver to the ground. “Because you didn’t already. You know what I think?”

“I imagine you don’t think a lot,” Lyssa said. “That’s why you’re a petty thief instead of being a mechanic.”

“Funny. I think you don’t have your phone.”

Lyssa hated it when thugs were observant. Secret identities were inconvenient. No normal criminal would have dared touch Hecate’s bike.

She furrowed her brow. Maybe the opposite was true. It didn’t matter for the moment. She needed to protect her bike.

“Walk away,” she said, almost growling. “It’s like you said. This can be easy for both of us.”

“Give me your keys before I slap your pretty little face.” The thief patted her seat. “I’m sure you’ve got insurance, rich girl. Go cry to them, fill out some forms, and you’ll have a new bike in a couple of weeks. Or cry to whatever sugar daddy bought it for you.”

She hadn’t brought her gun or regalia along for the ice cream run. No regalia meant less power, and half-assed sorcery wasn’t worth the risk of exposing her secret identity. She relied on her sorcerous abilities for dangerous assignments, but guns and sorcery were pointless without years of support, training, and practice.

“Don’t do this.” Lyssa shook her head. “I’ve had a crappy day, and I only came here to get some ice cream and bread. I don’t want any trouble, and I don’t want to hurt you if I don’t have to. It leads to paperwork for me and a long trip to the hospital for you.”

The man walked over to her. His white t-shirt reminded Lyssa of Caroline’s furniture.

Dust and grime weren’t the only things that were hard to get off white fabric. Blood was annoying to clean. At least her regalia cleaned itself given enough time, but that didn’t help her with her immediate problem.

“I also don’t want to get my shirt dirty,” Lyssa said with a shrug. “It’s limited edition. I had to special-order this from Tokyo.”

The thief chuckled at her Kawatsu-chan shirt. There were far more intimidating displays than pink unicorns, but Lyssa hadn’t planned on dealing with a thief.

“Maybe I should take that, too,” he said, scratching his cheek. “It sounds valuable, and it’ll teach you a lesson about thinking you can open your mouth and get a man to listen to you.”

Lyssa’s jaw tightened. Threatening her bike was bad enough. Threatening her favorite pink unicorn was asking for pain and death. It was what Kawatsu-chan would have wanted.

She thought about screaming for help in the hope of driving him away and not risking exposing her skills, but her pride wouldn’t allow that. Beating down the fool in front of her wouldn’t risk anything but a dry-cleaning bill.

She zipped up her jacket. No reason to risk the shirt after everything she’d said. She widened her stance and brought up her fists. “This is your last chance before I break something important. Nose and ribs are my best bets.”

The man laughed. “Look, this ain’t no special episode of Keeping up with the Kardashians. I don’t care what self-defense training you took in your fancy-ass gym, and I don’t care that your man bought you a bike, thinking it made you anything, but some rich bitch shopping at some fancy grocery store thinking she—”

Lyssa shut him up with a quick jab to the throat. He stumbled backward, gasping. She glared at him, hoping he’d buy a clue and decide it wasn’t worth the trouble.

The idiot growled instead. Lyssa let him charge her and grabbed his arm. Her leather jacket provided decent padding when she dropped to the ground and brought up her leg to his chest for a throw, using his weight and speed against him.

His eyes widened as his brain caught up with what was happening. He flew away with a strangled yelp before landing hard on his back, knocking the wind out of him. He gasped for air.

Lyssa hopped back onto her feet, deciding mercy was overrated when fighting a larger enemy. She hurried over to him and slammed her boot into his nose.

The man managed to catch his breath. Two fierce kicks to his stomach and one to his crotch followed, and he yelped in pain.

She crouched next to him and patted his arm. “This is one of those times you should reconsider your life choices. All I’ve done is beat you up. Plenty of women around here might have shot you.”

A final kick to the head knocked him out.

Lyssa stood, unzipped her jacket, and inspected her clothes, including her shirt. No tears. No stains. A good start. It was hard to tell in the minimal lighting halfway into the parking lot, but it looked like she’d only gotten blood on the tips of her boots. She could live with that.

Heavy footsteps sounded from behind her. She spun and brought up her hands. Cockiness led to sloppiness, and the latter killed.

The universe was screwing with her. An even larger man, a tatted-out biker in a leather jacket covered with chains, approached her. She’d seen enough scars in her time to identify the old knife wounds on his face.

Lyssa glanced around to make sure there weren’t more reinforcements coming. “Come on! He tried to steal my bike. Of course, I laid him out. Tell your friend to not steal people’s bikes if he doesn’t want trouble.”

The biker looked at the downed thief before looking at Lyssa in disbelief and speaking. His voice held all the charm of sandpaper meeting nails on a chalkboard. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Lyssa replied in an uncertain tone. She inclined her head toward her victim but kept her attention on the new man. “He’s not your friend?”

“Nah.” The biker shook his head. “I saw you fighting and thought he was mugging you. Stealing your bike? You’re right.