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“Hunter.”
Well, we’re on first names, it seems. “Poppy.”
The gun doesn’t move, but his eyes scan down my body and back up. It feels like an assessment, not particularly personal. More like an android scanning a human to compare to their data banks or something. “You’re her, the woman he met.”
“I can neither confirm, nor deny, that allegation. Until you tell me more than your first name.”
I’m afraid he’s an officer sent by Detective Carter, though I don’t know how he would’ve linked all that together. Carter’s all badge, no brains. And he definitely would’ve come himself if he got a hot tip on The Black Rose thief’s location. He’d want all the credit and wouldn’t want to share it with anyone. After all, the hero gets all the good press.
But Hunter scoffs and gives me a wry look. “I’m the closest thing to a friend Connor’s got. I help him with . . . his work.” His brow lifts at that, questioning what I know.
“You work with Connor and he told you about me?” I repeat cautiously. When he nods carefully, I throw caution to the wind and unleash wildly, “Where is he? He hasn’t been here in days. Is he okay? Tell me where he is.”
Okay, so maybe I get a tad bit hysterical and bossy. And I might be screeching loudly.
Hunter holds up a hand, telling me to be quiet. Seeing his gun still in his hand, he slips it back into a holster at his side. “He’s taking care of a job,” he tells me. “For some very dangerous people.”
“Where?” I beg. “I need him!”
“What’s wrong?” he demands, instantly serious. “Are you in trouble yourself? Threatened? Or . . . uhm, pregnant?”
I whirl, walking around in circles as I rant. “What? No, I’m not pregnant.” I repeat his last thing, shaking my head. “But what isn’t wrong? He dumps all this heavy shit on me and then ghosts like fucking Casper. No, not Casper. He’s a friendly ghost. Connor disappeared like a fucking poltergeist, leaving me jumpy and terrified.”
As I pace, spinning one way and then another, Hunter ducks away from the golf club resting on my shoulder. Finally, he puts a hand on my shoulder, stopping me and making me face him. “What heavy shit did he dump on you?”
He’s parroting my words back meticulously, which makes me suspicious as hell. Maybe he is one of Carter’s flunkies. Surely, somebody at the police department has half a brain and one ball between their legs.
I lunge forward, shoving the head of the golf club to Hunter’s neck, wishing it were a fat, chunky driver instead of an iron. “What do you know about Connor? You say you’re a friend, but what if I don’t believe you?”
He freezes, though I have every belief that he could push the golf club away easily. “He stole your laptop but helped you get it back. It was an . . . unfortunate collateral damage to another job. You got the jump on him, and somehow, he ended up taking you to his sister’s wedding. I’m still not sure how you managed that one.”
I sigh, weighing his words carefully. They’re all true, but I’m trying to make sure there’s no other way he could know that other than Connor telling him. Hunter pushes the golf club away slowly. “Believe me now?”
“Yeah. But you still haven’t answered my main question. Where is Connor?”
“If I tell you, I’m going to need your word that you won’t hurt him. How ride or die are you?”
“If he’s at a strip club, I will rip his balls from his body and stuff them down his throat until it’s so swollen he looks like a bullfrog,” I state flatly. I’m dead serious. “If he needs help, I’ll bring hell with me to protect him.”
Hunter chuckles, his smile turning his hard face into something much warmer. “I can see why he likes you. No strip club, I promise.”
“Then I’m totally riding, no dying.”
Hunter takes a big breath and points to the kitchen table. “I’m gonna need to hold you to that. Have a seat, let me fill you in.”
Chapter 23
Connor
Different coffee shop, same routine. Hunter and I never meet at the same place more than once every few months, but it’s always the same. Same franchise chain, same code phrases, same beverages just to make sure we’re in the clear to discuss things.
Once we’ve jumped all the old, familiar hurdles and I sip at my black coffee, I lay it out for Hunter. “I’ve got a problem, man. The five-oh sort.”
Hunter sips at his coffee, wincing. “How in the hell do they mess up black coffee? Shit, bitter is one thing. Burnt is another.” I agree with him. The coffee at this particular shop is terrible compared to some of the other places we’ve met. But that’s not really the point I want him to focus on. Finally, he sets the mug down, staring into its depths before scanning me up and down. “You’ve got more problems than that, but let’s start there.”
