The engine ticked softly as it cooled, the faint scent of dust and motor oil hanging in the air. The midday sun beat down on my neck, a thin line of sweat tracing my spine beneath my shirt. Icould feel my skin burning slightly where it was exposed to the harsh rays. I should have worn a hat. Should have brought more water. Should have done a lot of things differently.
Should have never picked up that damned boy.
My jaw tightened at the thought of him. Alfie. With his too-bright smile and his endless chatter and his perfect, willing body. The way he'd looked at me—like I was something special, something worth wanting. Like I wasn't just a means to an end or a paycheck or a warm body for the night.
I'd left him sleeping. The only decent thing I'd done since meeting him. He deserved better than waking up to me—to what I was.
A sudden movement at the house pulled me from my thoughts. The front door swung open, and a man stepped out onto the porch. My target. Milo Graves. I watched as he made his way down the walkway and to the mailbox before disappearing back into the house.
Good to know he was actually there. I reached across to the glove compartment to get the zip ties and taser, with the hopes that I could have an easy takedown, but before I could wrap my hand around the gun, something from the corner of my eye caught my attention.
No.
Surely that couldn’t be.
Fucking hell. It was!
What the hell was Alfie doing there?
I watched in horror as Alfie emerged from the back of a massive pickup truck, looking fresh and annoyingly cheerful. He waved at the driver—some lumberjack-looking guy with a beard that could double as a bird's nest—before turning to face the house.
My house.
Or rather, the house I'd been staking out.
I sat up straighter, my hand instinctively dropping to the gun holstered at my hip. This was bad. This was very, very bad. What was he doing here? Withthatguy. Whowasthat guy anyway? How had he even found me? And why did he have to show up right when I was about to make a move on my skip?
Before I could come up with a plan, Alfie spotted my truck. His face lit up as if I'd just given him the keys to a candy factory, and he started walking toward me, waving enthusiastically as he grabbed the fucking lumberjack’s hand on his way over.
I didn’t need this. Fuck. I really didn’t need this.
And to make matters worse, right as Alfie started crossing the road Milo Fucking Graves opened his front door again, his scowl directed at Alfie and the fucking lumberjack.
“Crowe!” Alfie cried out right as Milo looked my way, an evil grin lighting his face.
Milo and I had crossed paths before, so he knew damned well why I was there.
Dammit, Alfie!
I slammed my truck into gear and peeled out, tires kicking up gravel as I shot forward. The roar of my engine drowned out Alfie's startled shout, but I caught a glimpse of his confused face in my rearview mirror before I whipped around to face the real threat.
Milo was already moving. He'd ducked back into the house, but I knew he wouldn't stay there. He'd be going for a weapon, or a back exit, or both. I didn't have much time.
I hit the brakes hard, skidding to a stop just short of the porch. My gun was in my hand before I'd fully opened the door, safety off, finger resting alongside the trigger. I'd taken down dozens of skips, but none with a reckless, gorgeous hitchhiker watching from the sidelines.
"Stay back!" I barked at Alfie, who'd started toward me again, dragging the lumberjack with him. "Both of you, get in your truck and leave. Now!"
Alfie's face fell, confusion and hurt flashing across his features. "But Crowe—"
"Now!" I repeated, my voice hard enough to make even the lumberjack flinch.
The front door of the house burst open before Alfie could respond. Milo stood in the doorway, a shotgun leveled at my chest. I dropped and rolled behind my truck door just as the first blast tore through the air where my head had been. The sound was deafening, ringing in my ears as I returned fire after the second shot, two quick shots aimed at Milo.
He dropped with a howl, the shotgun clattering to the ground beside him. I was already moving, rushing up the porch steps while keeping my gun trained on him. A quick check confirmed he was down but not out—one of my bullets had caught him in the shoulder.
"Don't move," I growled, kicking the shotgun further away and pulling out my cuffs.
Milo whined and gnashed his teeth, but he wasn’t going anywhere. I knelt on his back, yanked his hands behind him, and snapped on the cuffs with a tight finality that said: “not your day, asshole.” He was a big man, about as big as me, but adrenaline had turned me into something with more muscle and rage than sense. I cuffed him, patted him down, and left him sprawled face down on the porch, bleeding into the gray wood.
