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The woman Daniel deserved?
What the hell does that even mean?
I barely knew him—but already by body was tuned in to him like a dial. I wanted more of him—more of his hardness against my body, more of his masculine scent swirling about my head, clouding my senses—more!
I wanted to scream.
It wasn’t fair—but I’d learned a long time ago that life wasn’t fair and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.
“Are you okay?” Daniel asked.
“Fine.”
He reached over and rested a hand on mine atop the gear-shift.
The warmth comforted me—as I was sure he meant to, but I pulled my hand away.
When we arrived at the house, Daniel rushed by me and for the bathroom. I shook my head and headed out to check the property.
The night air was surprisingly cool for an almost summer night in Montana. Maybe it was because I was on a mission.
Shaking it off, I wandered along a path to the right of his property until I arrived at a clearing with a fence. Atop a section of said fence was a sign informing people they were entering private property and trespassers would be prosecuted.
I scoffed—those signs meant nothing.
Hell, the fence meant nothing.
If someone wanted in—they would be getting in.
I was on my way back when there was a shift in the air to my right. At first, I attributed it to paranoia.
It was more of the idea that I expected trouble and would find it.
But when a rustle followed, I knew I was being watched. As nonchalantly as I could, I continued back into the darkness of a few trees, leading back to Daniel’s property. When I was sure my stalker couldn’t see me, I dipped behind a tree, unclipped the safety latch on my holster and wrapped my fingers around the handle of my Glock.
A man stepped into the dimly lit area—so tall, it was as if he was leaning to one side. He glanced around, irritation on his familiar face. As he approached the area where I waited, I realized where I remembered him from. He’d been at the diner where Daniel and I met with Swede before our surveillance.
He didn’t stick out. I remembered him because he kept getting refills to his coffee while reading a copy of David Hensaw’sThe Killing.
I allowed him to move a short distance from me before I released my gun and launched myself at him from behind. Wrapping one arm across his chest then up against his throat, I used my free hand to grab the wrist of my other then dropped my body, my entire weight, down toward the ground behind him.
He grunted and struggled to stay standing but I jerked my body downward, adding more weight against the upper portion of his frame, forcing him off balance. He hit the ground hard since I released him and scrambled out of the way.
The fall didn’t knock him out, but one of my booted foot to the head, did.
I peeled my shirt over my head, ripped off strips and tied him securely to a tree. Once I was sure he wouldn’t get away, I went through his pocket and had to use my cell’s flashlight to read his driver’s license.
“Mario Letterman.” I read. “Thirty-two.”
Aside from his license. He had twenty dollars, a cell phone—I was pretty sure was a burner—a piece of paper with some banking information and a black pen.
I shoved the money back into his pocket but kept everything else.
Afterward, I sat in the dirt in nothing but my pants and bra, waiting for him to wake up. When it was taking too long, my impatience got the better of me and I leaned forward to slap his cheek until he gasped and lifted his head.
I supposed it was human nature for the first thing for him to do was struggle against his restraint. I shone the light into his face.
“You know what this is.” I told him simply. “Let’s have a chat.”
