Chapter Two

Cliff

“Cliff—”

“It’s fine,” I growl. This isn’t the first time I’ve walked into a situation like this and walked out just fucking fine. While it’s nice to have friends, it’s annoying to have people so unsure all the damn time. How do they live their lives?

I’m not sure if it’s Dakin’s new woman who’s got him turning so soft, or if maybe he’s getting older and that’s making him a nail biter. Camille is adorable, though. But that kind of life, answering to a woman and sharing secrets with her… ugh. Not for me.

I’ll keep my demons well enough in the dark. Where they belong. Where I belong.

“If you’re sure.” Dakin still sounds worried, and I hear Camille in the background sleepily asking him who he’s talking to.

I hang up, knowing he’s got things to do as I finish preparing for tonight. I’m hunting fresh blood. Mr. Don Thomas, aka Tommy Gun, has skipped on bail. I guess facing trial for manslaughter and a list of lesser charges a half mile long made him decide to get the fuck out of town.

I’ve been craving action, anyway.

I’ve traced him all the way to this apartment in LA of all places. Idiot thinks that he can hide in plain sight. I slip through the sliding glass door. Every inch of my body is on high alert.

My ears strain to hear any sounds.

My eyes strain to see any movement.

My nose strains to catch any clues of a person.

The air changes, a subtle shift from cold to warm, and I know that someone is in the room with me as the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. My gun slides silently from holster to hand, and I lift it and move toward the source of heat.

A man, lying in bed, sleeping like a damn baby. Still, I know better than to be fooled. Nothing is ever as it seems. Many times I’ve had people feigning sleep with a pistol under their pillow, waiting for me.

I halt, my eyes seeking his hands, assessing every clue. Five beer cans on the bedside table. One on the floor at my feet. A single open blister pack of sleeping tablets.

Stupid? Or suicide?

An insanity plea is easier with self-harm on the record.

But a single pill and a six-pack isn’t even close to enough to kill a two-hundred-pound man. But I can’t rule out either thought.

His breathing, even and deep, suddenly changes as he lets out a snort and shifts.

On edge, I see his hands in plain view and make a snap decision. Grabbing his shirt collar, I yank him from the bed, shouting at him to further disorient him. A disoriented opponent panics. When people panic, they make mistakes.

He falls to the ground, his hands breaking the fall as I press a knee between his shoulder blades and bring his hands behind his back. Zip-tying his hands, I continue to shout at him, keeping total control of the situation as he cowers in terror.

When I haul him to his feet, he looks around the room as if expecting fifty armed dudes. But it’s just me.

“You’re a fucking scumbag,” he growls, but I ignore him. I’m not the one skipping out on a manslaughter charge. I’ve got the real scumbag in tow.

I walk him out to the elevator. With a single hand on his back, I push him in and walk behind him, feeling a sense of satisfaction mingling with a stern reminder that I still need to be on alert. The job’s not over until I hand him off to authorities.

Part of me wants him to run. Just so I get some challenge taking him down.

The elevator heads toward the ground floor but stops like someone has pushed the button for it. I push Thomas into the corner and put a shoulder into his back to make sure he doesn’t get any ideas as I assess this new addition.

A woman with beautiful sunny-blonde locks and the most luminous green eyes I’ve ever seen steps in and looks me over, then studies Thomas, clearly considering waiting for the next one.

I notice the light sprinkle of freckles over her nose and her long, shapely legs. Her irregular features are incredibly striking. She’s beautiful in an odd way.

She glances over her shoulder with a worried look, and I hear someone yelling.

“You’re fine,” I growl, and her eyes widen. I notice the fight in her eyes even as she acts. She steps in, and the door closes behind her. But she turns to face away from us in the back corner.

“Is she hot?” Thomas asks, his words mangled because of how his face is mashed against the wall.

I’m about ready to crush his nose with the pressure I’m putting on his head, but the girl turns to face us with fire in her eyes.

“Not as hot as your prison boyfriend is going to find you,” she says in a sexy voice that rasps like she’s sick.

I like this girl.

“She’s fucking right,” I growl at Thomas.

The girl is studying me now, her features questioning. “Long night?” she asks, her lips pursing in an amused expression.

“Yeah. You?” I say, trying to be polite.

She lifts both her shoulders and gives a shaky laugh. “You could say that.” Her eyes well up with tears, and her head drops like a rose on a broken stem. She turns away from me, and I sense her heartache but am at a loss for words.

I’m not the kind of guy who comforts people. It’s just not my gig. Maybe Zac could, but not I.

The elevator door opens, and she bolts like I’m going to haul her off next.

I walk Thomas out, shove him into my truck, and buckle his stupid ass in with the special belt I’d had installed. It requires an unmarked button to unlock that’s on my key ring.

As we drive, I bide my time, listen to him bitching, and try not to think about the blonde girl with the sad green eyes and pretty face. Somehow, she keeps sneaking back into my thoughts.

“Don’t talk much, huh?” the guy says from the backseat.

I ignore him as I merge on the I-5 headed north.