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I half expect Pick to pass and cut me off, but instead he drops in behind my Honda. Not crowding my bumper any, but right up on my butt where I can’t possibly miss him. He flashes his lights and jerks a thumb to his left. Once. Twice. Part of me agrees that talking might be smart. That’s a very small part, however. The rest of me remains convinced that the faster I run, the better. Mexico looks better and better the more I think about it. They have beaches, margaritas, and an unlimited supply of colorful fish I can hang out with. Of course, it would mean life on the run, and I’m fairly certain I’d be violating like a million Mexican immigration laws. And I’m broke. Driving an ancient Honda Civic that has two gallons of gas left. I flip the turn signal on and ease my foot off the gas.
Running forever isn’t feasible. I know it, you know it, and now Pick knows it.
Twenty yards of guardrail and mountain give way to a small turnout. Bingo. I pull off carefully because dying now isn’t part of my plans, either. A small placard declares this to be a Scenic Spot, and sure enough, there’s one hell of a view. Other than the generous helping of outdoors beauty, however, there’s not much. Just a few yards of rutted gravel and a wooden picnic table. I kill the motor but leave my keys in the ignition. On the horizon, a dark boil of smoke announces that the Rogues will have plenty of work tomorrow.
Getting out of the car, I cross to the picnic table, hop on top, and give the impressive drop-off a serious once over. Or pretend to. There might be more than a few stupid tears between me and the view because I’ve just been crashed by a pity party.
Behind me, gravel crunches as Pick pulls his bike off the road and coasts to a stop. Leather and denim rustles as he throws a leg over the seat and then approaches. For a big man, he moves quietly. He won’t hesitate or pull his punch about what he saw back there in the camp. For some reason, that’s not as scary as it should be. I think he might actually listen to my side of the story and not rush to judgment, and not just because a guy who looks like him and who rides around in leather on a bike has probably been on the wrong side of assumptions before. But because Pick’s a fair man. Dirty, rough around the edges, and more than a little bull-headed when he gets an idea—but fair.
I might just freaking trust this man and I have no idea how that happened. Perhaps I should revisit my belief in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy as well.
“Hey,” he says when he’s standing in front of me, opening his arms wide. He’s blocking the fabulous view, but that works for me. I stare at him instead. “You want to tell me what this is about? Why there’s an officer of the law looking for you?”
Despite my newly discovered trust, I really don’t want to answer that particular question. So… fight fire with fire, right? “Did you tell him about me?”
He smiles, real slow. “What do you think, Sarah Jo?”
“Do I look omniscient? If I knew, I wouldn’t ask.”
“No,” he says. “Of course I didn’t tell him anything. I was singularly unhelpful, as were the rest of the guys. We didn’t know a damned thing. Had never spotted your pretty face before. By the way, Colt wants your number. Last I saw him, Deputy Douche was getting back in his car, as unenlightened as when he arrived.”
Deputy Douche. I like that name. It sums up Thad’s sterling qualities so well.
Pick gestures with his arms, another, smaller Come here gesture. “You gonna spill the details now?”
Not a chance. I wrap my arms around myself. If I need a hug, I can totally self-provide. My butt’s staying planted right here on the picnic table at a safe distance from Mr. Hotshot. “Nope. Not a chance in hell.”
“Uh-huh. That’s what I figured. You have trust issues, Sarah Jo.”
“Working on it,” I snap. Wow. I might even mean it because some part of me I’d thought was long dead rears its head, almost begging for us to launch ourselves at this guy and spill all. Pick mutters something and drops his arms. Maybe they got tired, or maybe he just realized that hell would freeze over before I flew to him like some helpless little lady.
