Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 74501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
“Shit,” Vance muttered.
“Right,” Dutch agreed.
“You need my help with her?” Vance asked.
“I got it.”
“Take care they don’t see you first,” Vance advised. “They see her before you get her, she can deal. I’ll keep an eye. You get her out of here, then I’m gone. You catch trouble, I’m in.”
She couldn’t deal, he could tell by the way she was moving she had no idea what she was into.
“You got it,” Dutch said, thinking fast and moving faster.
He opened his door just as he heard Vance open his.
Then he moved swiftly.
Trying to stay out of camera range, which Georgiana was wandering close to, he took as direct a route to her as he could.
She was wearing all dark clothing, a knit cap over her hair, fluffing out the dark curls at the bottom, and she was slinking through the night, staring up at one of the cameras.
He approached from behind, and she was so bad at this, she didn’t hear him until it was too late.
He had her, one arm around her stomach, the other hand over her mouth.
She screamed behind it, arched hard and started to struggle, so he hissed in her eat, “Quiet! It’s Dutch.”
She stilled, twisted, he semi-let her go, keeping an arm around her, and his hand lifted so he could clamp down again on her mouth if he needed to.
And for some fucked-in-the-head reason, she caught his eyes in the dim light, hers got bright and happy, as did her entire gorgeous face.
She smiled huge and began, loudly, “We had the same—!”
“Shut it,” he bit. “They’re gonna see. Or hear. Let’s go.”
Only then did he take his arm from her, but he did it to grab her hand and drag her ass to his truck.
He practically picked her up and dumped her in before he jogged around the front bumper, got in himself and started up.
“Dutch, we—”
He turned to her, leaned her way, she reared back at his actions—the way he made them and probably the look on his face—and he ground out, “Serious to God, Georgiana, shut the fuck up.”
“You’re angry,” she whispered, looking surprised at this fact.
But she was wrong.
He was not angry.
He was enraged.
He could not believe anyone would hear Carlyle’s story and use any part of it to further their own career.
She’d figured it out, like he had.
And if she investigated it, blew it open for her news website, she’d get off the kids beat for certain.
“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ angry,” he replied. “And you best pray I get a lock on it on the way to my place.”
“Your place?”
“Christ woman, shut up,” he hissed.
With big eyes, she closed her mouth.
He turned back to the wheel, checked his mirrors, slid out of the spot, and drove the ten minutes to his crib.
He parked at the side, got out, walked to the hood of his truck, and saw she was out, moving hesitantly toward him.
He gave a fake-gallant sweep of his arm toward the side door.
She looked at it like a doomed woman looked at the gallows on her way to the noose.
Then she took in a big breath and marched her sweet ass toward his door.
She stepped aside so he could unlock it.
After he did, he stepped aside so she could precede him.
She’d stopped in his mudroom and he moved past her, going into the living room, doing it walking around, turning on lights.
He did this deliberately, taking his time, because he sure as shit didn’t get a lock on his temper on the drive there.
When he finally turned his attention to her, she was looking around the room, her mouth hanging open.
“Yeah, bikers read,” he said snidely.
Her eyes snapped to him.
“Dutch—”
“Shut your mouth, I’m talking.”
She shut her mouth, but she did it with her expression changing.
She didn’t look confused or concerned.
She looked like she was getting angry.
What this fucking woman had to be angry about, he had no clue.
But he was about to ream her with what was pissing him off.
“I cannot believe you sat in my goddamned truck—” he was losing it, he clamped down, and started again, “—with me doing you a goddamned favor, driving all the way out to fucking DIA to pick your ass up, and I told you about Carlyle, and you were struggling with your job, your own shit, when this kid is struggling with his dad getting shot fucking dead, and you used me sharing that with you to do something for yourself.”
“What?” she asked, back to looking confused.
“Investigating the black market info I gave you to write something for your website,” he rapped out. “Bet the crime beat is more interesting than the kids beat. Bet it also has a fuckuva better career trajectory too. Staff writer writing stories about vaping in school make squat. Investigative reporters probably make a bucketload more.”
She took a step back, honest to fuck, like she’d been sucker punched.