Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 76780 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76780 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
I fling off the cap and rise to my feet. Shaking the can, I admire what I’ve done so far. It’s really some of my best Rainbow Vigilante work. I’m pleased that it’ll be here for a long ass time because there’s no scrubbing this paint off brick.
With a vicious, victorious grin, I spray on the last arch.
Icy grape. A beautiful shade of purple. Like the bruise on my neck. A hickey that a certain hot cop gave me when he was being a total dick.
“Take that, fucking prick,” I hiss under my breath as I shove the cap on the can and toss it back into my bag.
My work is done here.
“You!” a voice bellows. “Put your hands where I can see them!”
Fuck.
I do what anyone in my position would do.
Fling on my backpack and run.
Atlas
“I said stop!”
The hooded figure slings on their backpack and takes off on foot toward Main Street, ignoring my commands. I’m not letting this asshole get away. I’d been patrolling Red Hake Mountain Road and just turned onto Second Street when I saw the vandal at work.
I found the Rainbow Vigilante.
Now I just have to capture the fucker.
Running back to my truck, I climb in and hit the gas to go after the criminal. From behind, I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman because of the hood. The perp makes it to Main Street and rushes across the road before heading toward First. I roll through the red light at the intersection and hang a left onto Main, my bald tires squealing across the pavement.
I catch up to the vandal but can’t exactly run them over with my truck.
Something tells me Jax would really have a fit over that one.
I fling my truck into a parking spot in front of BFB PD and barely get it turned off before launching out of it. The runner hoofs it around the corner on First and makes a break for it on the darkened road. But, based on my observation, I’ve got at least a hundred pounds—most of that probably muscle—on this person. I’ll catch up to them eventually.
All that can be heard at this time of night is the pounding of our shoes on the pavement and our heavy breathing. I’m gaining momentum.
“Stop!” I call out, breathless. “You’ll make this easier on yourself if you give up now!”
The prick veers across the grocery store parking lot and heads straight for my road. I shrink the distance between us when the perp nearly gets clipped by a rogue, late-night driver on Sandpiper Way. It slows them down just enough for me to catch up. The perp loses speed, clearly out of breath, and I make my move.
Snagging my hand out, I grab the backpack and sling the person to the ground. They land on their side, a masculine groan escaping at the impact of his head hitting the concrete. A guy. Good. I won’t feel bad for cuffing him, making me run my ass all over town, and resisting arrest.
But he’s not resisting.
He’s limp.
Fuck. I think I knocked him out.
Yanking his hood down, I squint in the darkness to see who this motherfucker is. As soon as I home in on the supple lips I haven’t been able to stop thinking about, my stomach does a violent dip.
Shit.
Callan.
The vandal is Callan. My Callan.
And he’s out cold.
I’m still breathing heavily and would love to take myself a little nap too, but that’s not going to happen. My house is a few driveways away, whereas the station is a long way back. Since it’s just Callan, I’m taking him home. This is some serious shit. Vandalizing a damn bank, for fuck’s sake.
“Wake up,” I grunt.
No response.
Concern chases away annoyance. I stand up and then heft up his slight frame. His scent—all Callan with a now-hint of spray paint—invades my nostrils. I’ve sucked in several greedy breaths of him, and I’m already feeling high. I’m not sure if I can even blame it on the paint fumes since he pretty much always has this effect on me.
Damn kid.
Why?
Why in the hell is he out in the freezing cold with nothing but a stupid hoodie on tagging buildings?
I know one thing’s for sure. I’m going to find out.
The walk home is short, but he still hasn’t gained consciousness. I’m half-tempted to take him to the hospital instead. But then there’ll be questions, and I’ll be forced to do something.
I’m not sure I want to do anything.
It’s Callan.
The kid doesn’t belong in jail.
I manage to get us inside without me dropping him. He’s still out. In the light of my house, I admire his pretty cheeks that are pinked from the cold.
I like him tucked in my arms and looking so damn peaceful.
By the time I reach my room, he moans, and his eyelids flutter, but he doesn’t fully wake. I wrangle his backpack off. It hits the floor with a clang, all the spray paint cans banging together inside. Still, he doesn’t stir. I lay him down on my bed and remove his black Docs. He’s not dead because he rolls onto his side and curls his knees up to his chest. I run my fingers through his messy dark hair, feeling for lumps or lacerations since he banged his head hard enough to knock himself out.