Instead, I crouched in the shadow of a Joshua tree, heartbeat and breathing steady. I waited. Watched.
Through the gaps in the fence, I saw Lachlan stumble, then lean on the fence post. His shirt clung dark and wet to his frame, blood-soaked cotton.
A blink brought me back to a different desert. Afghanistan. Jamie and I, both saturated in blood. We’d laughed through shrapnel. A different life. A different loyalty.
Now, I wasn’t his brother.
I was the wedge.
Lachlan struggled to pull himself over the fence, teeth a gritted line.
While I jogged around the adjoining condo, I shot out a quick text to a few girls I’d met at a bar in the Westgate Entertainment district last night. Cute, but desperate.
ME: U ready to meet the Scot & Big Country?
TRINA: You forreallll? The SCOT? THE SCOT? Lachlan MacKenzie. AND MONTANA … BIGGGGG COUNTRY!
ME: Yep.
TRINA: Send the addy.
ME: Gimme a few. Just get dressed look pretty.
The lady sentme so many emojis, I suppressed the desire to block her number. For now, I’d wait until Lachlan got rid of—wait. He wasn’t like his family. Not that the media knew much of them since he kept a low profile. Would he get rid of the bodies?
Would he … call the cops?
I rubbed the side of my fist into my eyes and sighed, getting into my truck.
Another hour later, Lachlan drove down the street where I’d parked near the stop sign, the figure of the other baseball player at his side. My brows darted upward. Montana? They did so much promotion together, I assumed their friendship was a publicity stunt. Maybe they were really good friends?
Their faces appeared somber.
I almost considered calling the cops.
But I put my truck into drive and drove back toward their condo while texting the girls periodic updates to hype them up. I parked a few houses down. Two hours passed, and the baseballer’s rental slid up the driveway.Great. After another thirty minutes—Lachlan and Montana would want to recuperate—I shot off a quick message to Trina and her friends. Pressed Send with a chuckle. “Lach, our girl is not putting out, so I understand the booty call.”
In no time, headlights lit the driveway. A car door slammed. Then another. High-pitched laughter filled the air.
They were here. Half-naked. More than half, really.
Perfect.
I angled my lens from across the street, crouched behind a parked van.
Flash.
Flash.
Two girls leaned over the hood of the baseballers’ ride, taking selfies. The third knocked on the front door, adjusting her micro dress, which showed more side-boob. Her voice rang out. “Montana! Lachhhhhhh!”
And I caught every bit of her shouting on video.
Lachlan opened the door—clean shirt, no blood on his face. Fatigue still there. The second he saw them, his mouth tensed.
Confused. Annoyed. He seemed to offer her a sharp retort. Tried to wave her off.
The girl giggled and swooped her arms around the back of his neck, coming in hot. The angle of my camera pivoted to cut his face from view. The footage would show her and his inked-sleeved arms. The paparazzi couldn’t deny that.
