“Well, I give you that same look anytime I catch you and Mason making out.” I chuckle.
“Mads. This was different, and it’s just one example. He apologized the next day, but it was like he was a different person—edgy and angry. Not the Liam I’ve known for years.”
“Maybe Mason should talk to him since they’re close. Liam could be going through something personal and just hasn’t mentioned it, but he might tell Mason,” I suggest. “You didn’t talk to us when you were going through all that shit with Weston, so maybe Liam is shutting down, and we need to figure out what it is.”
“I found something in his jeans five months ago when I was helping with his laundry. It was a casino receipt and a chip from Vegas. It was for a lot of money…”
“How much?”
“Sixteen grand.”
My eyes widen. “Wow. So you think he’s gambling?”
She shrugs. “I’m not sure if it was a onetime thing or not, but it could be why his moods change so rapidly. When he’s ahead and winning money, he’s on a high, but when he loses, he’s angry and pissed. I don’t know if that’s really what’s going on, but I have my suspicions. He’s been traveling a lot more and says it’s for work, but I kinda wonder if he’s really going to Vegas instead.”
I chew on my lower lip, shocked to hear this revelation. There’s no way he’ll confess anything to me, not yet at least. “Maybe we should snoop through his stuff…” I smirk.
“Don’t, Maddie. That’s an invasion of privacy.”
Rolling my eyes, I exhale. “I was joking. But I’ll keep an eye out for any signs now that I know. See if I can get him to talk about work more or something.”
“Well, if you do, please tell me. I’m worried about him.”
I squeeze her shoulder, flashing a sincere smile. “I will.”
Chapter Seven
Liam
ONE MONTH LATER
“You motherfucker,” I mutter to myself, grinding my teeth by how reckless he’s driving down a busy road.
For six hours today, I sat in my truck watching him from the motel parking lot, and now I’m tailgating this asshole who’s driving like he’s fucking drunk. I should’ve grabbed him when he stumbled out of his room, but the bastard jumped into his piece of shit before I could.
Hank Fletcher, thirty-five, Caucasian. Unemployed. Has a thick file full of DUIs and drug possession, assault and battery, and domestic abuse reports. Oh, Hank, you don’t know how to follow the fucking laws, do you?
“Goddammit.” I shake my head, trying to keep up with him. The asshole nearly runs another car off the road, and I’m tempted to call the cops and let them deal with his ass, but I don’t. I desperately need the money, so I’m gonna have to follow him.
Once the bail bond company assigns me a fugitive, it can take a few days or more to find them. Research is a crucial part of the job. I always start at their last known address, but if they’re missing court dates and not responding to their parole officers, then typically, they’re no longer there. I’ve been tracking this guy for three long days, and I’m at my limit with his bullshit. After talking to a few of his friends and family members, I got a lead and came straight to this shitty motel. I found a car parked a couple of spots down that matched the plates listed in his file. It was confirmation he was staying here, but since the owner refused to give me his room number, I had to resort to staking out the place. Hours later, I saw Hank open the door to room number five. Oftentimes, these criminals are dumb as fuck. If I was on the run from the law, the last thing I’d do is drive my own vehicle.
I used my night vision binoculars to keep an eye on him in case he decided to leave after dark. However, he got food delivery at midnight and then ordered a prostitute at three in the morning. I’d be willing to bet a hundred bucks he paid the chick to let him rough her up because he’s that type of scum. She came out an hour later limping and looked like she’d been hit in the face. The sick fuck has a past of beating women, and I’m sure he gets off on feeling powerful. It took all the control I had not to barge in then, but I didn’t want to blow my cover yet or get the woman involved.
By the way he was wobbling, I could tell he was drunk off his ass, and that usually means trouble. Drunk bastards have no limits because they feel no pain, which means they fight dirty. I’d prefer not to return the fugitive barely conscious, though it wouldn’t be my first time. Technically, I’m not allowed to kick their intoxicated asses before bringing them in due to legal liability, so I’ve kept them in my motel room a night or two until they sobered up and were presentable enough to get my check. What the bond companies don’t know won’t hurt them.