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“I care about you so much,” he said, finally able to get the words out. He’d not said anything like that to anyone in a damn long time.
“I know, Remington Bowman. You’re an open book.”
He smiled.
No, he wasn’t, but that she could tell…
Someone could read him. Honestly, he didn’t want to die yet, which was funny because, for the longest time, he didn’t want to live.
Oh, New Orleans had boned him good on this one.
“When we get out of this,” she began. “Want to go see a movie? I think I’m going to need something sedate. Adopt a kitten? Go to church?”
He laughed.
“Yes, I’m allergic, and I’m too far gone for church.”
“Who am I kidding? I’m the same with the last part.”
He left a kiss on her temple.
God.
If there was one, now would be a good time for him to save his ass.
“If for some miracle, we get out of this…”
He laughed.
“I’m handcuffing you to my wrist. Madam, you get into some shit.”
She snorted.
Then, the vehicle slowed and came to a stop.
They had to be at the destination.
“Keep them focused on you. I’m going to handle them,” he said, taking the crowbar and putting it not far from where he’d drop down.
There were three of them, and he needed to disarm them all—before they pulled their guns.
Remington could hear them talking, and he walked up the walls, using his hands and feet so he could stare down at them.
He could hear the lock being undone.
When the door was flung up, the light was bright and momentarily blinded him.
“HEY! Where the fuck…?” one of the men muttered.
That was his cue.
He swung down, taking two of them out with boots to the face.
They staggered backward, caught off guard. With the third, he landed on his feet, grabbed the man’s gun that was down his pants, and pulled the trigger.
It shot the guy right in the junk.
And that was why you NEVER carried a gun down the front of your pants—not if you liked having a dick.
