“What?” I prompted. “Spit it out.”
“I did have a thought about San Diego.”
“San Diego?” I considered it as I pulled away from him and got back to packing. “Why San Diego?”
Angelo gave me a half-smile that I could only describe as sheepish. “I was thinking aboutmyskills, andyourskills, and how we work as a team…and I wondered if we could set up as…well, as fugitive recovery agents.”
I dropped my handful of socks on the bed. “Bounty hunters? You think we should becomebounty hunters?”
“Why not?”
“Why not?Where to start!” I was flummoxed. “I mean,firstup, that sort of thing is right on the line of vigilante justice.”
“And what exactly have we been doing, chasing down Greco all this time? The Feds weren’t going to do it, so we did it for them.”
I scoffed, but only because I couldn’t think of a comeback. He was absolutely right. “Well, you—you have to pass background checks to even get started,” I offered. “No felony convictions.”
“Ihaveno felony convictions,” Angelo pointed out smugly. “Bianchi and Associates have seen to that over the years. And my record as a minor is still sealed.”
I stared at him. “You’reseriousabout this?”
He gave me a carefree grin that suddenly wiped the years from his face. “Why not? I think we’d be great at it. We could keep working together like we have been all this time. I know my way around the criminal networks. And you’re the most morally centered man I’ve ever known. You have an innate sense of justice. I’ll be happy to follow your compass; we’ll only take the cases you want to take. And besides all that…lookat you.” He stepped back a little to take in my whole body with an admiring gaze. “If that body of yours wasn’t made for bounty hunting, I don’t know whose was.”
It had been a shitty, confusing, up-and-down day, but Angelo’s enthusiasm was catching. And I knew my man. There was no way he was going to accept retirement any time soon. He liked action and he liked living on the edge. Bounty hunting offered a legal way to do that.
And if I wascompletelyhonest with myself, I was the same. Ineededthe thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of putting bad guys away. It was my way of honoring my family’s memory. “Okay,” I heard myself saying. “Okay, then. I guess we could give it a shot.”
Angelo leapt at me, tackling me to the bed in a bear hug.
“Thisis how you’re going to catch all those fugitives from justice?” I laughed, letting him pretend-manhandle me onto my belly, and hold my hands behind my back. He started kissing the back of my neck, grinding down against me so I could feel his excitement. “It better not be,” I added.
He flipped me over, propped himself up on his arms, and smiled down at me. “You’re the only one who gets special handling, kid. Always.”
I curled a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him in for another kiss. “Mm. Show me more of your vigilante ways.”
His eyes gleamed as he dipped lower to nuzzle at my neck. “Love you, Bax,” he murmured between kisses, working his way down to my chest. “Love you forever.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Some time later
“Ahundred yards,” Angelo insisted. “I took him down no more than a hundred yards from the border.”
“One-fifty,” I countered, taking my last bite of steak. “And that’s being generous,” I said around chewing.
Angelo had been right: we madegreatbounty hunters. We’d only been at it a few months, but we’d already forged a reputation for being efficient, effective, and very,verypersistent. We had, as Gina Garcia had predicted, been cleared of all charges associated with the Central Park Slayings, both state and federal, including a quiet dropping of our names from the FBI’s Most Wanted—and although Angelo still appeared onCute Crims, my entry had been frozen, my photograph faux-stamped with the word “ARCHIVED.”
No apologies had been issued to us by any law enforcement agencies. The FBI had tried to get me to come in for mediation after Carlo Bianchi told them we intended to sue over constitutional rights violations, but Angelo and I had talked him down.
In the one compromise I’d asked for, all certification and approvals for the two of us as fugitive recovery agents in the state of California were rushed through.
We had everything we wanted. We had each other, and we had a beachfront house with views over the blue waters of the Pacific. There was even a private dock, where we moored our fishing boat. We hadn’t had much time for fishing, because work was so busy, but it was nice to think that it was there, waiting for us, if we wanted it.
This particular night we were grilling out on the patio as the sun made its way toward the horizon, and debating just how close our fugitive that day had come to escaping. I was nursing a sore middle along with my bruised pride. I’d been the first one to grab our bail-jumper, but I’d underestimated just how desperate he was. It had been Angelo who tackled him to the ground after he’d escaped my grasp with a hard elbow to my solar plexus.
“You tired him out for me,” Angelo allowed now with false modesty. He raised his glass of red wine to me in a mock-toast, and I had to laugh.
“It was a good catch,” I admitted, sitting back in my chair. I loved it out here, with the sea whispering in my ears, and the sight of Angelo Messina relaxed and happy on the other side of our small outdoor dining table. His white shirt was unbuttoned and his feet, I knew, were bare. Admittedly, his tailored Ermenegildo Zegna pants cost about as much as the bounty we’d made that day, but he wouldn’t be Angelo Messina withoutsomeitem of ridiculously expensive couture on his person.
