The Tomcats Tame the Domme [The Shifters of Catamount, Texas 2] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)
Page 23
Though early in the year, the leaves had begun to change color, a clear indication winter would arrive sooner than usual. Talon was glad of it. After the heat of Miami, Catamount, and New Orleans, he was looking forward to a winter of cold air, deep snow, and solitary isolation. He’d already stocked in enough food to see himself through two winters, had driven back and forth to secure enough gas to run his generators for emergencies, and had filled gallons and gallons of jugs with spring water. If worse came to worst, he could always hunt.
The sight of those golden leaves shaking in the whispering wind made him smile. Dorothy might have been an idiot, but she’d been right about one thing. There was no place like home.
When the phone rang, he ignored it. After all, only a few people knew he was still alive and they were the only ones with this new number. Most probably assumed he’d not survived the blast his brother had set at Coral’s. Santos had wanted him dead after all, both him and Rosa. Talon didn’t know whether that wish included Raptor, too, but either way, it was obvious Esteban Santos had grown tired of the man who’d done his bidding for the last few years. Oh, sure, most of Talon’s time had been spent with Juan, but each time Viper had given him a task, Talon knew it was really Esteban pulling the strings, even if Viper had never known it.
Well, he had all the money he could ever need now. Santos had paid him quite regularly and quite well. Talon had transferred that money into dozens of accounts all over the country because Talon had always seen the writing on the wall. He might look like a dumb lug, and act like a dumber one at times, but his mind was sharp as a tack. He’d known he was expendable, and once Esteban thought his presence was more of a liability than an asset, Talon also knew he’d pay the ultimate price. He just hadn’t expected it to come so fast or with an explosion in the French Quarter.
He sipped at his wine. He was sick of the liquor the Santos men had been pouring down his throat. He was a wine man, and a wine man he’d stay.
His phone rang again. Reluctantly, he turned toward the coffee table and looked at the display. He didn’t recognize the number, but he connected. It had to be one of the few people he called friend.
“Yeah? Talk to me.”
“Hello, Barry.”
A woman? His mother was dead. He had no sisters. He had no female friends. He rarely conversed with women unless he had to, and he certainly never gave out his number to lovers. He was a “fuck ’em and leave ’em” kind of guy.
Christ, someone knows I’m alive.
“Do I know you?” he asked cautiously.
“I believe so. This is Stephanie Cooper.”
His forehead scrunched as he thought. He didn’t know many women at all, and he certainly didn’t know someone with a name like Stephanie Cooper for fuck’s sake. She sounded like some high school kid involved in pep squad and choir. Maybe she was a kid from the local town.
“So what do you want? Are you selling cookies or something?”
She laughed. “No, Barry, I’m not selling cookies.” Damn. Why did she keep saying his name? He didn’t know what to say next. “This is Barry Hatfield, is it not?” When he didn’t answer, she took it a step further. “They called you Talon, right?”
“Fuck, lady. How did you get this number?”
“Detective work,” she said simply. “Though I have to admit it took me a while.”
“So, Ms. Cooper…do…do I know you?” Damn. Tongue-tied talking to a damn kid. That was not good.
“Yes, Mr. Hatfield, you do. We met several months ago in New Orleans. We spent a lovely couple of minutes together. I’m the cheerleader.”
The word was like a punch to his gut. A picture slammed into his head. A little bunny-shifter with bright brown eyes, a rockin’ awesome body, and a head of pretty blonde hair. Oh, no. That just wasn’t fucking possible.
He didn’t know what to say so he just took a sip of wine, trying to remember to breathe.
“I remember,” he said softly. “So, what do you want, Ms. Cooper?”
“It’s Agent Cooper actually.”
“Even worse,” Talon said. “Look, I already told you I won’t give you any information. If I do, I’m a dead man, so that’ll never happen. I’m only alive now because I’ve managed to fly off the radar.”
“But for how long, Mr. Hatfield? Surely someone will soon discover you’re alive, and then what?”
“No clue,” he said, “but talking is a death sentence.”
“I can offer you protection.”
“Sure, you can. In exchange for information. I know the drill.”
“I’m not after information…per se,” Stephanie said.
“Then what?”
Her words came out in a rush, as though she needed to say them before she changed her mind. “I’d like you to come work for me, Talon. I think we’d make a good team.”
Damn, he’d always somehow known cheerleaders would be full of surprises. She sure didn’t disappoint. He reached to click the disconnect button, but then he surprised himself by saying, “Talk to me, Stephanie.”
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Josie Hunter lives in Ohio. She can be reached at josie.hunter.author@gmail.com.
For all titles by Josie Hunter, please visit
www.bookstrand.com/josie-hunter
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
About the Author