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“I’m happy to be here.” The good food, the community atmosphere, and the friendly people all remind me why I miss Texas.
The organizer moves on, and the humid air stands absolutely still as I wait, wishing I could get my long hair off my shoulders and claw off at least half the makeup the stylist put on me less than an hour ago.
It seems like forever before the parade begins and the floats in front of me lurch forward, crawling down the parade route. Then mine follows suit, dragging across the black asphalt. The heat is oppressive, shimmering off the road in waves under the pounding sun.
I look down at Rand, standing silent and stoic, feet apart, hands at his sides. I feel the coiled tension coming off of him. There’s nothing restful about the man.
It’s almost as if he’s expecting trouble.
But I can’t ask why because the crowd is too loud and we’re quickly approaching the intersection that will mark the beginning of my music piped through the overhead speakers. So I quell my worry, grip the microphone, smile for the folks lining the parade route, and get ready to look like I’m giving the performance of my life.
Everything is great as the float creeps through the intersection. The intro to my latest single cues up. My stomach tenses; it always does before a performance. Then I’m dancing my way through the opening bars of the song and enjoying the crowd’s enthusiasm.
Until gunshots erupt and all hell breaks loose.
Rand
The moment I hear the first gunshot, I grab Sophie Larsen and tug her off the platform, shielding her with my body. Around me, people scream. I draw my weapon. Pandemonium ensues. Parents grab their children. People run everywhere. Others, especially those less mobile, either drop to the pavement or scramble for the nearest doorframe, looking for some semblance of protection.
That’s all moving in my periphery, but what I’m really aware of is finding the asshole with the gun—and the beautiful blonde behind me, breasts rising and falling at my back with every rapid breath she takes.
“Are you hurt?” I shout over the noise.
“No.”
Her reply is faint, but I hear it. That’s enough for now.
Another shot rings out, so close I hear the bullet whiz past my temple. It’s not my first rodeo with this kind of shit, but if I don’t move, it might be my last. Still, I’m under no illusions. I’m not the target of whoever’s pulling the trigger. Since his first shot went way over my head, to Sophie’s platform above, I know he’s aiming for her.
“We’ve got to move!” With a curse, I hop off the float, then pluck her off behind me. To her credit, she lands on her feet, despite those ridiculously impractical, totally sexy heels. Even more impressive, she actually manages to run.
Still, I’m twitchy. It’s the screaming. And the suggestive music filled with Sophie’s smoky voice singing about sex that’s unsettling me. The adrenaline isn’t helping, either. But the back of my neck starts to itch.
The next shot is coming.
Abruptly, I swerve into a nearby doorframe, jerking Sophie with me, again shielding her with my body as the next shot hits a window frame inches from us, splintering the wood. She starts in fear. I yank on the doorknob to the right to try and dive inside. It’s locked.
Fuck.
I’m hyperaware that my back is vulnerable and that she’s pressed against my chest, looking up at me with those hypnotic eyes she’s so well known for, a tumultuous shade between blue and gray. Only now, they’re panicked. I see past the stage makeup and the false lashes to the terrified woman underneath.
“Breathe.”
She shakes her head. “We can’t stay here.”
“No. C’mon.”
I tug on her arm again and sprint down the sidewalk. Another shot whizzes through the narrow space between our shoulders. From the timing and position of the shots, I suspect there’s one shooter across the street, probably on an upper level or roof. And if I can’t hustle Sophie around the next corner before he fires again, at least one of us stands a good chance of being dead.
Air burns my lungs as I sprint toward the corner of the big building on my right. Sophie does her best to keep up. She’s got a death grip on my hand.
Another bullet zings between us, this one near our hands. The screams of the spectators grow even more shrill. Sophie gasps. She’s unnerved. I don’t blame her. Dodging a killer isn’t exactly in her wheelhouse. Worse, we’ve still got fifteen feet before we reach any semblance of safety, and this asshole is going to get off another shot before we can make it. I’d love to turn and off him, but he’s probably a few hundred feet away. The shot isn’t impossible with my Glock, just unlikely. And in the time it would take me to find him, set, aim, and fire, he’d probably tag and bag me. And if something happens to me, what happens to Sophie?
I’m not waiting around to find out.
“Run!” I pick up speed and yank on her wrist.
She stumbles in the ridiculously high-heeled shoes. “Wait!”
