He lifts his hand slowly and presses his thumb to his bottom lip. Drags it across. His eyes locked on mine the entire time.
A command.
My breath catches. My pulse goes haywire. Heat floods between my thighs so fast my knees nearly buckle.
I know what that means.
I know exactly what that means.
It meansrun.
Because when I run, he chases.
His chin drops. Just slightly.His eyes don't move from mine. They don't blink. There isn't a trace of the man who was spinning me on the dance floor five minutes ago, cracking jokes about prom and bar fights. That man is gone. The one standing in front of me is the version that makes my hands shake, and my thighs press together, and my brain go completely, dangerously blank.
My lips part. My chest is heaving.
He doesn't move. He's waiting. Giving me the head start because that's the game. I run, he counts, he finds me. And when he finds me, I'm his. Completely. No rules. No limits. No stopping until he decides we're done.
And that is the most freeing part of my life. I trust him to know my body, my mind, better than anyone else. Only he can do this with me.
I take a step back.
His jaw flexes.
I take another.
Something flickers in his eyes, a barely leashed hunger that makes my entire body clench.
I turn on my heel and walk toward the back of the bar.
I don't run yet. Not here. Not inside. I keep my pace steady, weaving through the crowd, feeling his gaze burning into my back like a physical thing. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it over the music. My legs are trembling. I push through the back door into the night air, and the second the door closes behind me, I run.
Night air in my lungs. Adrenaline floods every vein.
Ace picked this bar in the middle of nowhere on purpose. It’s close enough to Sterling Ranch that it’s safe.
It’s somewhere we’ve played before.
I don't look back.
I don't need to. I can feel him coming. I usually get a minute head start. And that’s all I need. Because I want him to catch me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Ace
Song- Holdin’ On- Skrillex & Nero Remix
I count to ten before I leave the bar. She’s got sixty full seconds before I start the hunt.
That's the rule. Always has been. She runs, I count, I hunt. Sixty seconds is generous. It don’t get you far in cowboy boots on desert gravel. But that's the point. The game isn't about distance. It's about the fear of being found. The thrill of knowing I'm coming and not knowing when I'll get there.
I reach behind me and pull the bandana from my back pocket as I head outside. I fold it once, tie it over my nose and mouth, and pull it tight. Something about the ritual of it settles the noise in my head. It sharpens everything down to instinct.
I glance at the wall beside the back door. A coil of rope hanging from a rusted nail, left there by whoever ties down the kegs on delivery day. I lift it off and push through the back door.
The parking lot is half empty. A single light buzzes and flickers above the back entrance, throwing a weak circle ofamber that dies after twenty feet. Beyond that, nothing but open desert. The bar sits on the edge of town where the buildings thin out and the land takes over. But it’s our land.
