Page 23 of Playing with Fire

“Yale left me one yesterday.”

“Sad-dle?”

“I am not putting a saddle on you. I refuse.”

Stubborn human. Why were all humans so stubborn and annoying, especially the pretty ones? “Yes, you will.”

“I will not.”

“Get sad-dle! Take you. Ten min-nut. Be fass-tur if not argue. Wear un-ee-form, get sad-dle. We go.”

“It takes longer than ten minutes to go fifteen miles, Gardener.”

“Want to bet?” I’d show him. I’d make it in nine, too, just to spite him.

“No, I don’t want to make a bet with you. It can’t be done.”

“You will. Bet,” I demanded. “Bet!” Prancing in place, I bobbed my head and swished the air with my horn.

“Christ, fine. Fine! What bet? I really can’t afford to waste time, Gardener.”

“When you here in house, no shirt. Feed me best meat by hand. Grapes, too.” After all, what girl didn’t want a shirtless man feeding her grapes? Unicorn or not, I was going to live the dream. “Keep fire nice, bright, warm. Serve me.”

For a chance to have a half-naked Chief Quinn at my mercy, I’d do a lot more than gallop to Manhattan. “You win, you boss me. I give rides. Make fire. Not make fire in house.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Quinn stared at me. “If I don’t agree, you’re going to play with fire in my house to spite me, aren’t you?”

Oh, that was a great idea. “Yes!”

“I’ll go get the saddle.”

Quinn would be mine to enjoy, and all I had to do was gallop from Queens to Manhattan to have him. As though resigned to his inevitable defeat, he gave me a bowl filled with fresh meat cut into bite-sized cubes while he dealt with my tack. The CDC had custom made my saddle since my body wasn’t quite shaped like a horse’s. The bridle lacked a bit, which was a good thing, as I would’ve melted it down and swallowed it to get rid of it.

Metal did terrible things to my digestion.

After he had me saddled up, he went into his house to change, returning within five minutes. The rumpled state of his uniform warned me whatever the situation was, it was bad.

His cheek twitched as he looked me over. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Swallowing down the last chunk of meat, I gave the bowl a parting lick before straightening and tossing my head. “You ask Profess-ur Yale about ride. You get ride. Complain, complain, complain. You keep time. Me run. You ride. No whine-ing.”

Quinn groaned, jammed his toe into the stirrup, and mounted. I grunted as he settled his weight on my back. Yep, the man was made of pure, wonderful, rock-hard muscle. In nine minutes, he’d be all mine.

“Hold tight. I run fast. Ver-ree fast. Fass-tur than car. Red-ee?”

“Fine. Don’t you dare break your neck doing this, you hear me? So help me, I’ll kill you myself. I’m timing you, Gardener.”

Since losing my rider—my prize—would cost me precious seconds, I eased my way to a canter, unsheathing my claws whenever my hooves couldn’t get enough traction on the asphalt. I would give him a block to adapt to my rolling stride before I hit top speed.

While I didn’t often drive despite having a license, I knew the routes from Queens to Manhattan well enough. After a moment of thought, I decided Quinn lived close enough to Whitestone to warrant crossing the bridge there before hopping onto the Cross-Bronx long enough to reach Bruckner. Then I’d make my run past Central Park to the police station.

The only issue was getting there without ditching my rider or smacking into a car. Either would ruin my day, although I’d rather break a leg than hurt Quinn. People needed him.

No one needed me.

The thought both depressed and annoyed me, and determined to prove I could be useful to someone, I charged towards the Whitestone bridge. Intersections proved my first obstacle, and I dealt with them by bolting through green lights, treating yellow lights like green ones, and jumping over vehicles when the lights didn’t cooperate and stayed red before my arrival.

The first time I disregarded a red light and leaped over oncoming cars, my passenger yelped and clutched at my neck. I loved it so much I did it again at the next light, thundering my way to the bridge in a minute flat, blowing through the tollgate and cutting off several drivers in the process.