Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
“So what do we do now?” she asks in a small voice.
“We let me deal with it. Like I said before, I’ll take it to the cops. I have a contact.”
“The cops. Right.” She laughs brokenly, shaking her head. “And what can they do without proof? You basically said it’ll be cleaned up there before we can blink.”
“There’s more to find, sweetheart. Like I said, leave it to me.”
“Lovely.” Sighing, she flashes a thumbs-up like the wounded little smart-ass she is. Only, there’s something brittle in her voice as she says, “I won’t bother you anymore. You’ve made your point. I’ve got a store and a life to get back to.”
Oh no.
Oh, fuck.
I sidestep and stop in front of the door.
“Not a chance, lady. You’re staying put until we’ve figured this out. You’re safer here in a gated house with a state-of-the-art Home Shepherd security system than anywhere else. I have friends I can call on the Kansas City PD to patrol this place, too. I’ll let you know the second the coast is clear.”
She stares at me like I’m speaking ancient Phoenician.
“I wasn’t done at the bakery, dude. I’m not your prisoner,” she whispers. “They’re expecting me back and I’ve got to drop off the van. I’ve got orders to bake and—”
“Fuck the bakery!”
It comes out in a brutal, throat-scorching rush that leaves me stunned.
I’ve never truly roared at her before.
I’ve never used my voice as a weapon.
I’ve never imagined hurting her while I’m trying like hell to keep her alive.
“Don’t you understand? This is life or death, Junie,” I whisper raggedly. “You might think you can just waltz in there and come away unscathed but the real world doesn’t work that way. You don’t just wind up on organized crime’s radar one minute and skate back into a normal life the next.”
She blinks at me.
Once, twice, like she’s collecting her thoughts, or maybe she’s just trying to breathe.
“Junie,” I manage. “Say something.”
“Don’t. Don’t fucking shout at me.”
I hang my head. I don’t know how not to shout at her.
I’m so shit-scared and furious and disgusted with myself.
So angry that I’m the cause of this misery that I want to throw something, to show her the sharp edges and remind her we’re balanced on a knife’s edge and the second she puts herself in danger, the balance breaks.
I can’t lose her. Not like this.
“I told you before, you can’t order me around,” she says, still too quiet and unsure.
“And I told you, you can’t call the shots when you don’t know what you’re dealing with. Don’t brush this off like it’s not important. You could have died there, woman. Died. They could have found you and it would’ve been so quick you wouldn’t have even known it was happening.”
Her face pales, but I’m too far gone to stop now.
Then my fucking phone vibrates again.
A call this time. Wretched timing.
Ignoring it, I shake my head fiercely. “You may hate the fact that I’m telling you to stay put, but I need you to understand it’s for your own good.”
“Is the deal toast?” she asks absently. “Is that why you’re blowing up like this?”
I laugh harshly, finally glancing at my phone.
Fuck the deal. I’ve seen enough to know Haute isn’t anyone we want as a partner.
I need to get to the police station, to see Batista immediately, to get a warrant for Forrest Haute and his friends.
Every second spent here is a second wasted by keeping this going.
“Never mind the deal,” I tell her, breathing too fast. I tuck my phone back in my pocket.
She looks at me with the same stiffness in her expression.
“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice distant, like she’s speaking to me through a pane of glass. I can’t reach her. “I guess I just did more damage trying to do the right thing.”
“It’s not about that.”
“Yes, it is.” She swallows and meets my gaze. There are tears gathering there. I’ve only seen her cry once before, and never like this. Our arguments never felt this frigid, this final. “I get it. I’m not cut out for this. You know it, and so do I.”
“Don’t do this to me now.” I glance at my phone again.
Shit, shit.
Archer’s going to die of a stroke if I don’t report back.
“We’ll finish this later. I have to go,” I say, turning on legs of pure cement.
“You don’t have to do anything, so don’t worry about it,” she whispers. “With Haute going down and the business with him toast, there’s no reason to continue with this, is there? This fake fiancée crap…”
God. Fucking. Damn.
I don’t have time for this.
It’s killing me that I don’t, driving a slow dagger through my heart.
And what would I say if I did?
Now isn’t the time for a heart-to-heart, even if it’s long overdue.
If I don’t leave now, I could blow my best chance at nailing Haute’s dick to the wall.