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“You still haven’t proven to me who you are.”
“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, digging out his wallet. He found a business card and handed it to her. She used the light from her phone to read it. “Anyone can get business cards printed. I want to see an actual ID.”
He pulled out his driver’s license and held it out to her, but when she reached for it, he tightened his hold. She tugged at it and he finally let go. He went to the front of her vehicle, using the light of his cell phone to inspect the damage.
Luckily, it appeared drivable. It would need some minor bodywork, definitely a new front grill. Maybe even a bumper and new radiator. But for now, she could limp it home.
“Your name isn’t Nick,” she called out.
He flashed the light under the front, searching for any antifreeze leaks. It seemed dry.
Yeah, she could at least drive it home. He’d follow her, get her secured in her house with her sister and then they could have a real discussion instead of one alongside a dark road.
He walked back to where she sat and finally answered her. “It is and it isn’t.”
She rolled her eyes. “Which is it?”
“If you gotta know—”
“I do.”
“It’s my middle name. I use it when I’m out huntin’.”
“Hunting fugitives.”
“Yeah.”
“When you’re not out hunting, do you go by Deacon?”
“Deacon, Deke, dick. Depends how pissed the woman is who’s sayin’ my name.”
“If a woman is calling you a dick, then she must have a good reason.”
“Won’t argue that.”
She held out his license between her index and middle fingers. They were long and slender. Her long fingernails were painted, but unlike Bambi’s, Reese’s weren’t as brightly colored and didn’t have such sharp, pointy tips. They looked more conservative.
Like how she dressed. Professional. Put together. Classy.
Not Deacon’s normal target when it came to one-night-stands.
Though, the few women he’d known similar to Reese were more conservative during the day and went buck wild at night when they could let loose and put their hair down, just like Reese had done.
He’d also met a few who were frigid bitches. Nothing warmed them up or made them happy. They just needed to spread their misery to others.
He wondered which one Reese was.
He slid his license back into his wallet. “Trust me now?”
“Oh, yes. A hundred percent now that you showed me a driver’s license which could also be fake. Sure, come on back to my house and hang with me and my sister.”
Deacon considered her for a moment, then shrugged and shoved his wallet back into the rear pocket of his jeans. “Fine. On your own then. Tell your sister good luck.”
He gave her a two-finger salute and spun on his boot heel to head back to his truck.
Fuck this. He’d head back to his motel, get a good night’s sleep, call Bianchi in the morning and tell him to find someone else to capture Warren. Deacon got into his truck and started it.
Her driver’s door still hung open. So, he waited a minute, just in case she changed her mind on being difficult and actually wanted his help.
No skin off his nose if she didn’t. His wallet just wouldn’t be as fat.
When her BMW’s door slammed shut and her reverse lights lit up, he put his own truck in reverse and backed up enough to be able to pull around her.
And that was what he did. With no reason to stay, he continued down the road in the opposite direction of town, hoping to come across a pull-off where he could swing a U-turn easier in his truck than the narrow area where they’d been sitting.
That wasn’t the only reason, but that was what he told himself.
With a quick glance in his rearview, he made sure she got her cage out of the ditch and back on the road. The last thing he saw was her taillights as he drove around a bend.
“Good fuckin’ luck,” he muttered into the dark interior of his Ford. “You’re gonna need it.”
He found a pull-off not a quarter mile later and swung his truck around, not rushing to return to town. Nobody was waiting for him in his room and it was too late to find someone to keep him company.
He could call Bambi, but she hadn’t been thrilled about him blowing her off for Reese. And he wasn’t in the mood to sway her otherwise. He wasn’t in the mood to grovel for a little pussy.
His fist would be simpler and cause zero complications.
His fist also wasn’t stubborn. Unlike blonde lawyers.
He took his time driving back through the game lands to avoid wildlife darting across the road, but it wasn’t a four-legged Bambi which had him slamming on the brakes.
No, it fucking wasn’t.
It was a white BMW stopped alongside the road. There must have been more damage than he originally thought.
