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“Victims? Jesus Christ.”
The next thing I know, I’m being thrown over his shoulder and he’s stomping through the diner, my comic book dangling from his free hand. I’m so stunned that it doesn’t occur to me to scream until we’ve almost reached the door. I twist around, frantically looking toward the kitchen, but the cook isn’t there. He’s probably out back, having a smoke. But I scream anyway. I scream as loud as possible before the glass door closes behind us, the tinkling of the bell fading into the night.
I need to fight. I need to get away.
He saw a picture of me. Where?
Has he simply been trying to charm me out to his truck?
Why would he do that when he’s strong enough to carry me there against my will?
“Let me go.”
“Never.”
A truck door opens and I’m being drawn off his shoulder, lifted, crowded through an opening by his big body. Frantically, I look around at the tiny room. It’s located behind the front seat of the rig and it’s only big enough to hold a twin-sized mattress, the bedding messy. A small refrigerator. A desk lamp in the corner. “Oh God, how many people have been killed in here? Some luminol would light this place up like a Rorschach test, wouldn’t it?”
“Enough,” he says through his teeth. “No one has been killed in here.”
I lunge for the lamp and swing it at his head. “Save it for the judge!”
He catches the neck of the lamp in mid-air and smashes it against the wall, the bulb shattering onto the floor, leaving us in the barest bit of light coming in from the front seat. For long moments, we stare at each other, breathing hard. I’m shocked to find out I’m still severely attracted to this man, even though he’s about to make me a future cold case. And that attraction only amplifies when he takes a step in my direction and slowly strips off his shirt.
Oh lord. He’s like a sculpture. A sculpted work of art that has been graffitied on.
“Lay down, Tatum.”
Chapter Four
Hoss
Christ, she has so much spirit.
So much life inside of her, it makes me feel alive, too.
I almost wanted her to succeed in clocking me with the lamp, just so she could be proud of herself. I’m fuck-starved and starry-eyed for this girl—and thanks to my slip-up, she obviously thinks I’m a murderer or something equally terrifying. Yet when I toss aside my shirt, she blinks several times and starts to breathe faster, because no matter what incorrect assumptions she’s made about me, she’s still horny as hell and I’m going to have to use that. I have no choice. If I don’t distract her, if I don’t use every weapon at my disposal, she’s not going to let me keep her safe. And her safety is paramount.
If something happened to her, this world would never recover from my rampage.
“Lay down, Tatum.”
“Did you get those tattoos in prison?” she blurts.
I point at the mattress. “Down.”
She shakes her head.
I move like a shot, catching her around the waist and wrestling her down onto the mattress, careful not to hurt her. She tries to knee me in the junk, but I get her pinned down roughly beneath me, wrists trapped above her head. “Now, you’re going to listen.”
“You can’t make me. My ears are closed.”
“My cock is hard.”
“What?”
“So you are listening.”
“You villains and your sneaky tricks.”
