by RC Boldt
“Join me?” he offers again. “It’s a big table, and I certainly don’t mind sharing it.” There’s the briefest pause before he adds, “It’s not often that I have company.”
Something in his voice has me giving in, and I choose the chair beside him, the one that offers me the next best view of this place. “Somehow, I find it hard to believe you’re ever without company.”
Barely, just barely, am I able to hold back a flinch in response to what’s slipped from my lips. It had sounded…flirtatious. What the hell?
I don’t do that. Ever.
“I find it just as hard to believe you’re alone as well.” His voice is smooth like velvet, yet it doesn’t come off as predatory. He shifts, and his eyes skim over me. It’s like silk, slinking around and enveloping me in a sensual caress.
“You’re a smooth talker.”
“I just call it like I see it.” He lifts a bottle of Sweetwater IPA to his lips, and even in the dim lighting, the weight of his gaze clings to me. Taking a short pull, he swallows. “I don’t normally invite people to join me.” He says this plainly, but there’s a hint of surprise in his tone as if he’s startled himself by extending me the invitation.
I avert my eyes to survey our surroundings. “Neither do I.”
“You’ve been here before?”
“A time or two.” I turn back to him.
He doesn’t press me further but continues to study me, and it’s equally as unnerving as it is thrilling.
An older, harried-looking waitress who looks like she’d rather be doing anything other than working here ambles up to the table.
“What can I getcha?”
“I’ll have the Wilmington Tropical Ale, please.”
He declines another beer, and the waitress leaves us with the speed of a turtle on its deathbed.
“She’s certainly thrilled to be working here.”
A laugh rumbles free at the unexpected sarcasm in his remark, and I immediately stifle it. I can’t afford to have any recognizable traits in public. It’s far too risky.
“Don’t be embarrassed by your laugh.” Leaning forward, he props his forearms on the table, moving past the darkest shadowed area, granting me a better view of his face. My breath hitches at the sight while a chaotic mix of unease and intrigue unfurls within me.
Lean and sinewy, with a swimmer’s build, he exudes a strength even beneath the layers of clothing that is undeniable. His cheekbones are chiseled, lips the perfect balance of not too lush and not too thin, and a square jawline so sharp I itch to trace my fingertips along it. But it’s his eyes that catch me by surprise.
The depths of those dark eyes look like they’ve experienced a thousand deaths. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear hints of anguished pain are scattered throughout. That anguish calls out to me like a kindred spirit of sorts. Like a siren, ensnaring me in its powerful magic.
“Your laugh is beautiful,” he tells me. “It has a…” Trailing off briefly, as if searching for the right word, he continues with, “Quality that’s carefree.” A wistful expression crosses his face, but it’s gone in a flash, making me question if I even saw it.
“Thank you.”
He simply nods, and something twists inside my chest, as though my body attempts to remind me of the organ there. I wonder if he senses the odd tension crackling in the air between us. It’s as though he’s somehow ensnared me in a web of need, sending lust pulsing through my veins. The sensations are so unfamiliar and send a strange fissure of unease rippling through me.
He takes another swig of beer just as the waitress returns with my own. Once she leaves us, he holds out his bottle expectantly for me to clink mine against it. With a lift of his chin, as if to gesture to me, he murmurs, “To unexpected companions.”
I clink my beer to his and take a drink, grateful for the cool liquid relieving my parched throat. This man unsettles me in the most unnerving manner, but I don’t want to call more attention to myself by moving to drink my beer alone. Something about him tells me he wouldn’t be opposed to voicing his disapproval.
My eyes keep gravitating to him as if there’s some invisible tether reeling me in to him. There’s an assessing quality to his gaze, and he alternates between a casual survey of this bar and studying me. Neither comes off nefarious, yet it’s unsettling all the same.
I find myself wondering if he’s cataloging every bar patron and their threat level like I have. Or estimating the time it might take to get to the closest exit—the one in the back, past the kitchen entrance—if something goes down. Or attempting to determine whether I’m a threat.
“Do I make you nervous?”
“No.” Yes. But probably not the way you’re thinking. It’s because of the intriguing magnetism he possesses.
The edges of his mouth tip up the slightest fraction. “That’s good.”
I pick at the label of my beer absently, not taking into account the condensation gathering at the base. The bottle slides from my grip. I try to right it, but I’m thrown so off-kilter by him that I end up knocking it, sending it teetering.
His hand shoots out with lightning speed, fingers closing over mine around the bottle, righting it before it spills. The touch of his calloused fingertips has me drawing in a sharp breath before he pulls away. “Careful with those runaway bottles.”
I’m rendered speechless, so shaken by his touch. It’s been seven years. That’s all it is. I repeat this internally while I assign more focus on drinking my beer than necessary, desperate for the distraction.
Seven years without sex. Seven years with the sole concentration and determination on killing those responsible for ruining my life. That’s all this is. For whatever reason, my stupid hormones decided to awaken at the most inconvenient time.
It’s the only explanation for my body blazing to life from a deep slumber enforced by grief and heartache. The only reason he sends my pulse racing. When his eyes drift down, as if trying to see through the fabric of my turtleneck to gauge my pulse, I wonder if he senses my reaction to him.
I observe his movements—no wedding ring in sight, nor a telltale tan line. Confidence oozes from him, yet not in an obnoxious manner. He simply moves with purpose, his face a mask of concentration as if he’s prepared for anything that might come his way.
A fiercely undeniable yet odd connection draws me to him, and I’m unsure what to make of it. It’s as though every molecule in my body is keenly aware of him. As if he possesses a magnetic force, drawing me in.
What I do know is this was a mistake to indulge in the seemingly simple act of sharing a table and a few words. Because with this man, it feels dangerous. He’s far too compelling, drawing me in like a moth to a flame.
I tip back my beer and take a few big swallows before setting the bottle on the table. “I should go.” Avoiding his eyes and the unmistakable weight of their observation, I withdraw some cash from my pants pocket.
“Allow me. Please.”
“No,” I say quickly before offering a brief but polite smile, and place the money on the table. “But thank you.”
He studies me before nodding his assent and his eyes dart past me. Momentarily distracted by whoever’s just entered the bar, his attention not trained on me, I observe his movements. His left hand lowers to casually rest near his left hip in what would seem like a casual manner to the average person. But it’s not. That simple action is telling.
He’s armed and evidently favors his left hand. This isn’t newsworthy since the state allows citizens to carry concealed weapons with a permit and the fact that the fucking Dixie Mafia’s running rampant nearby. But the sensation, the inkling that this man poses more of a danger to me, prickles at my spine. This serves as an indication that I need to go.
I scoot my chair back to rise. “Thank you for the company tonight.”
He follows suit and stands, pleasantly taller than me. I allow myself a brief glance at the full length of his body. He does not disappoint, that’s for sure. He exudes ra
w power beneath the clothing. A jacket matching the color of his black suit pants that frame a trim waist and mold firm thighs, it complements the rest of him.
If he held me in his arms, I’d feel safer than I’ve felt in a long time. The thought is startling in both its truth and sudden emergence.
When his eyes capture mine, my heart lurches violently in my chest, and I drag in a shaky breath to regain composure, willing away my strange reaction to this man.
He holds out a hand. “I enjoyed chatting with you…” His trailing off tells me he’s finally asking me for what had been an unspoken agreement between two strangers. No names. A simple, uncomplicated, anonymous encounter.
I can’t offer this man my name or entertain thoughts of him romantically. This isn’t the kind of life I have anymore. There’s no room for attraction. I can’t afford that risk.
So, I simply shake his hand. “I enjoyed it, too.”
His calloused grip sends shivers skittering through my body, and a part of me is instantly bereft when he releases my hand. “Have a good night.”
I turn and walk out, still maintaining that faint limp I had when I entered, and covertly glance around to see who might have garnered the man’s glare. I only see one man, and it takes every ounce of restrain not to break into a sprint.
Detective Warren sits at the bar, not sparing me a glance, thankfully. He’s chatting up the bartender with apparent familiarity.
With each step, as I internally scold myself to stay cool, the weight of the man’s attention clings to me. The heat from his gaze sears straight through me.
As the warmth settles through me, I fight back the urge to wonder what might’ve been if circumstances were different. If I could turn back around and see where things might lead.
If I weren’t on the path to hell with no salvation in sight.
24
The Hunter
I’ve been studying the footage, but I’m distracted. Fucking. Distracted. And it pisses me off because that’s deadly in my line of work.
Yet I can’t get her off my mind—the woman in the bar the other night. Something about her captivated me. But right along with it came uneasiness, like she was hiding something, and I get the feeling it wasn’t only her name.
The fucked-up part of it all was my disappointment when she declined to tell me her name, because I sure as hell wouldn’t have given her mine.
Not like I have a real one anymore, anyway.
She was beautiful in an understated way, and I wanted to know what kind of injury she had that gave her that limp. Wondered if her hair was as soft as it appeared or how her eyes would widen if I kissed her…or more.
She made me wonder what the hell planted that sadness in her green eyes.
She made me feel things I have no damn business feeling or wanting.
Then Warren came sniffing around the bar like a damn bloodhound. Thankfully, he’d ignored me, and I reciprocated. The last thing I need is someone connecting us.
My mind reverts back to the bar and the sound of the woman’s laughter. It had made her face light up, and for a split second, she didn’t look like the weight of the world was on her shoulders.
“Dammit!” I shove away from my desk, and Kujo snaps his head up, tipping it to the side as if to ask, What the hell is your deal?
Fuck if I know. I need to get my head on straight and shove this woman out of my mind.
I drop down beside him and scratch him behind his ears the way he likes. “Sorry, buddy. Just trying to figure shit out.” With a sigh, I straighten and pace, forcing myself to focus on the job, and mentally review everything I’ve noted so far.
In the video, the woman’s voice, the husky quality sounded almost…forced. Like she was trying to disguise it. “But anticipation can be arousing.”
It’s like I’m mentally stonewalled because I sense something’s right in front of me, but I can’t grasp it. Fuck. I need to get out of here. Maybe some fresh air will do me good and help me regain my focus.
“Wanna go for a walk?”
As soon as he hears the magic word, Kujo’s ears perk up, and he trots over to my feet, sitting and waiting patiently for me.
“Let’s get out of here.” I open the door and carefully lock up behind me as we head out into the night air.
25
Her
I’ve finished assessing the latest location the Dixie Mafia’s moved their operations to. They seem to have increased the number of guys standing watch, but I’ve taken out some of their best men, so the ones they have now aren’t a serious concern.
What’s plaguing me is why the leaders are so secretive. What’s with them concealing their identities? They never used to do this, so why now? Did they actually get disfigured in some accident?
They haven’t come out to any of their sites afterward to oversee things as far as I can tell. But that’s okay because I have unfinished business with a certain man. Cash Boudroux. The traitorous bastard who played a role in killing his own best friend.
It’s ironic that Cash is now responsible for overseeing the packing of the smuggled weapons…in the back of Bullard’s Gun & Pawn. In the place where he’d been countless times to visit my husband.
The betrayal tastes so rancid on my tongue, it nearly has me heaving. Deacon had no idea his best friend would become a murderer. That he’d be responsible for killing our daughter.
“Soon,” I whisper from where I stand in the shadows, yards away from the shop. Men line the exterior of the building, blending in with the night as they’re meant to. They’re vigilant because they’re on edge.
Because of me. But they don’t realize the best is yet to come. They haven’t begun to feel even a fraction of my fury.
My words are whispered, barely audible, before the harsh wind whips them away.
“Soon, you’ll pay with your life.”
The words are more than a threat.
They’re a promise.
Keep running. Just keep running.
The rumble of raised voices outside a run-down three-story building sends unease surging through me. But that’s not the worst of it.
It’s the sight of the young boy sitting out in front on the cold concrete stoop, huddled in on himself like he wishes he could magically disappear. He looks like he’s probably eleven or twelve years old, and his head jerks up at the sound of my faint footfalls on the street in front of him.
The boy stares at me, and even though he doesn’t have an unencumbered view of my face, the weight of his gaze and his lost expression tug at me.
Dammit.
Gradually, I slow my pace until I draw to a stop, still a few yards away from him. “Past your bedtime, isn’t it?” I try to keep my voice low, hushed.
He screws up his face like he’s smelled something rotten, eyeing me in my head-to-toe black gear, my hood pulled over my head. “What, are you the grim reaper of bedtime or something?”
I huff out a breath. The grim reaper part is pretty damn close. “Or something.”
The volume of the voices inside increases, and this time, a woman’s voice joins the two males. “What’s with them?” I ask.
He shrugs. “My mom’s boyfriend and his brother are being stupid again.” Dropping his chin to his chest, he mutters, “I hate it here.”
“They always like that?”
“Yeah. Wish my mom and I could move out, but she said she doesn’t make enough money on her own.” Another dejected shrug.
“They get violent with you?”
“No. But they’re loud, and they break stuff sometimes when they drink and get angry.”
We fall silent, and I realize the argument inside has died down.
“Guess things have calmed down. You should get some rest.”
“Yeah.” He lets out a sigh before rising and turning toward the building.
“Oleander and North Eighth Street. It’s shitty and small, but unit three’s available. If your mom knocks on unit five and asks for Tawnya, she’s been l
ooking for help at her salon.”
The boy turns around and stares at me like I’ve spouted off something in Latin.
“Just don’t bring those two jackasses.” I stuff my hands in my pockets and start backing away. “And don’t tell anyone about me,” I warn, my tone turning much icier. “Under no circumstances are you to tell anyone about me.”
His eyes are so wide, the whites gleam in the barely there moonlight. “I won’t. I promise.”
I nod and turn, walking away. I only get a few feet away when he calls out, “I’m Javoris.”
I falter before tossing over my shoulder, “I’m the bedtime grim reaper.” After the briefest pause, I add, “Get some sleep, Javoris.”
Amusement laces the boy’s tone. “Night, Grim.”
What the hell am I doing here? This question runs on a loop in my mind, because I don’t have time for this shit. This isn’t part of the plan.
Yet I still find myself pulling open the door to the bar I entered a few days before and stepping inside.
I scan the place for him. When I come up empty, it’d be a blatant lie if I said his absence didn’t send disappointment coursing through me. All desire to relax with a drink in hand fades, and I decide to walk back out the door and head home. Coming to a bar just to see a man is proof that I’m being an idiot. Me, a murderer. What the hell do I say if he asks what I do in my spare time?
Oh, you know, I stalk members of the Dixie Mafia so I can kill them in cold blood because they murdered my family.
Or, if he wants to get to know me, I can’t tell him my real name. I can’t risk that he’d turn me over to the authorities because there’s no guarantee I’d get away like last time. Then everything I worked so hard for, all the training I’ve put myself through, would be worthless.
That man had looked like…well, a man. One who has his shit together. Sure, he has an air about him, one that makes me believe that any riffraff attempting to pick a fight with him will end up losing—and badly. He exudes power. Authority. Control. But there’s another quality about him that I find intriguing: an unmistakably compelling trace of some sort of kinship between us.
