“I’ve been busy.”
He shifts from foot to foot. “Yeah, chasing a chick. Or should I say chauffeuring one around.”
I growl and his gaze snags on my curled lip. He smirks and offers me a light punch to my biceps. “Relax, man. Everyone’s seen you dropping her off and picking her up for work. Morgan, Paul, me, and …” He trails off, his body shifting toward his truck again.
It’s then I notice movement in the passenger side of the truck. The glass is tinted, so dark it almost blends in with the black trim, but there was movement—a flash of something behind it.
I squint, leaning slightly to the side to catch it again. My pulse ticks faster, and the unsettling feeling in my chest feels like Max’s nose nudging me over and over again.
“What’s going on?” I ask Brent.
He swallows and reaches up to adjust his hat. “I told you my boss was coming to town.”
I focus on the truck, my heart rate spiking. “Yeah?”
“He and a few of his men have come. They’ve brought a load of Jackpot, and he’s got some other agenda here, too. He wants?—”
There’s a roar in my ears. I can’t hear this. This goes against everything that I’ve taken an oath to uphold. I shake my head. “No. No. This has gone on long enough, Brent. You need help. I can’t be a part of this anymore.”
“Oh, you’re part of this.” Brent’s sly smirk is chilling, and he nods toward his truck.
I cringe. How different would this be, would ourfriendshipbe, if I’d been the one to take the fall? If I hadn’t kept to the shadows when we were caught and let Brent shoulder the weight we both deserved. What kind of man would I be now, if I’d spent those years locked up instead?
The notion we could’ve gone back to the friendship we had is broken. While I finished college and entered the life of law enforcement, he was released from prison with a bitterness even he couldn’t ignore. It adds another layer to the already circling guilt I have that he ran off to Alabama and got involved with the wrong people, withthisman. The drugs leveraged the storm that’s always raged in him, to the point where now he looks to me like I owe him penance for a decision he made, and I pay him off in quiet compliance.
But I never held a gun to his head all those years ago. I didn’t steal his voice. I was just the coward who let him answer for the crime we both committed—and that might be worse.
The passenger door opens and a striking figure steps out. He’s tall, and his blue-black hair is spiked up, gleaming under the sunlight, making him appear even taller. The man reminds me of a chiseled statue. High cheekbones and porcelain-pale skin, like it hasn’t seen the sun in years, stretches around his smile while straight teeth shine through the piercing on his lip. There’s also a ring through his brow, a stud catching the light in the corner of his nose, and several hoops lining his ears.
“Noah Sullivan, a pleasure to meet you,” he says, rounding the front of my truck to stand next to Brent.
I eye my gun, then move to exit the truck. I’m not about to cower in front of this man like Brent is. It looks like he crawled up his boss’s ass. His exaggerated smile is more servile than genuine, like he’s silently willing his approval.
Is this the addiction? He’s so consumed with Jackpot that he’s sold himself to this otherworldly man?
And … a pleasure to meet me? Why does he sound like he’s from the eighteenth century?
He shuffles back as I slide out and shut the door. His oversized suit seems like an afterthought, like it may not be what he’s truly comfortable in.
“Is it?” I ask, in response to his greeting.
“Is what?”
“Is it a pleasure to meet me?”
He raises his chin, then tilts his head, considering. “You honestly have no idea how much, but that’s beside the point. Brent here has told me a bit about your past and what he’s done for you.”
Brent winces at his side.
“I have a proposition for you,” he says.
The unbuttoned collar of his shirt blows open—he’s not wearing a tie. The informality of it all entertains an edgy confidence that makes the hair on my nape stand up. Though, as he adjusts his collar, a tattoo peeks through—what looks like a flower of some sort?
“I see you work for the National Park Service.” He gestures with a single hand toward my truck.
“Observant,” I deadpan.
He titters. “I could use someone in your position. I’ve recently been handed a larger operation. What used to be a humble network in Alabama has since grown, extending into northern Mississippi. My rival, Darrin Reynolds, is now in prison, taken down from the inside by one of his own. The cartelhas handed me what’s left with the expectation to enhance the network, if you will.
