The sun works hard to break through the frozen cloud cover. We’re getting closer to December and the snow is ready to drop. My feet ache in my boots, my balls are stuck to the bench, but when my phone vibrates and her name flashes on the screen, the shot of adrenaline that zings through my blood warms me the fuck up.
Not just a text, but a call.
Answer it; hear her voice.
Don’t answer it; miss her.
Answer it; give my location away.
Don’t answer it; won’t be tempted to quit my job and become a bagger at Jonah’s store just so I can keep her.
Her name flashes across my screen, and each time it lights up, I imagine her standing in front of me with her gun, demanding my fucking attention. It feels like a lifetime ago she stood in pretty little panties and tried to kill me.
She’s the only person on this planet that has tried to kill me and remains alive to tell the tale. Not only is she alive, but the memory makes me laugh.
She’s a spitfire. She’s everything I need in a woman, but unfortunately for us, we met in the wrong time, wrong place.
The wrong fucking identity.
When her call rings out, when I can’t bring myself to take her call and allow her to bring me in – because she could, I’d do anything she asked – instead, I chew on my bottom lip and wish I could touch her one more time.
One hug.
One nap.
One more inhalation of the sweet fragrance that permeates from her hair. One more teasing remark where I’m so crude she nearly comes from my words alone.
Just one more.
My phone flashes again with a message. I expect the typical ‘you have a voicemail’, but instead, I get something that makes me snap straight on the frozen park bench.
Al, I need you to call me. I’m in danger.
She wouldn’t say that to trick me. She wouldn’t try to trap me… maybe. But I call anyway. Crushing my thumb down on the delicate glass screen, I push the thick parka into my backpack one handed and work to zip it closed while I wait for the call to connect.
“Come on, baby. Come on. Answer me.” It rings and rings and rings. Frustrating the fuck out of me, I swing the bag onto my back and prepare for another sprint across town.
Come on. You don’t get to claim emergency, then not take my call.
The line clicks and gives me just half a second to relax before the sounds of Jess crying – because I fuckin’ know it’s her – then male laughter freezes me as surely as the cold weather does the grass at my feet.
“Special Agent Kane Bishop…” That thick arrogance sets me on fire. “I shared cigars and whiskey with you.”
“Hayes. Where the fuck is she?”
“I thought I could trust you. I thought we were pals.”
“Where is she?!” Birds flee the tall trees above me. My shouted voice echoes in the still empty Main Street until one single man steps out of the garage at the end and cocks his head to the side.
“Where is she, Hayes? You have my attention. I’ll come to you.”
“You know where we are. Run.”
The club.
As soon as the call disconnects, I slam my cell into my leg pocket and sprint straight for the guy with long hair and greasy hands. He watches me approach, and though he brings his hands up semi-defensively, he doesn’t do much more than rest a twenty-inch wrench against his beefy shoulder. “Can I help you?”
“I need a car.” I skid past him and into his garage. The sun’s not yet through the clouds, but this guy’s garage is open and he has three cars in each slip, and another in the parking lot out front. “I’m a cop, and I need a car. I promise you’ll get it back.” I duck my head into each car in search of keys.