Chapter 9
“I’d binge-watch that show.”
-Cat
The smell of roasted pork and hickory is strong as I pull into the parking lot of Rack Slabbath - a barbecue joint in the middle of nowhere. Not nowhere, exactly. Ridgeway, Florida isnowhere-adjacent.
Ridgeway was once a bustling town, with a vibrant main street and booming secondary tourist trade. But when the interstate system went in, Ridgeway’s popularity went out.
The vibrant main street became a ghost town. The tourist traps pulled out and moved to Daytona, Orlando, or Tampa.
Ridgeway still had a gas station and Rack Slabbath - home to the best barbecue this side of the Mississippi.
Whenever business brought me through this godforsaken part of Florida, which was ten miles from the federal prison, I stopped in to get a pulled pork sandwich.
“Miss Cat! Pulled pork today?”
I smile at the giant waitress standing beside me. She was six feet tall and shaped like a bowling pin. “Persis! How you doin’ woman?”
Persis pops her hip, flicks her orange-red hair over her shoulder, and levels lavender eyes at me. I know they’re colored contacts that she doesn’t need to see, but it’s still unnerving.
“We’ve been swamped ever since the-” Persis tilts her head at me, then shuts up.
“Since the incident.”
She pats my shoulder. “I’m sorry, darlin. I know you were close with Sheila.”
I study the menu even though I know what I’ll be ordering. I need a moment.
The convoy attack happened a mile down the road. I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t tracking down two fugitives.
“She was a great partner and an even better friend,” I grimace at Persis. “She’ll be missed.”
Persis takes my cue to stop talking about the crash. “So, what brings you in today? Hungry for barbecue?”
“Just hooking up with a co-worker before a meeting down the road. I’ll take a sweet tea to go.”
An obnoxiously deeppotato-potato-potatosound comes from outside. A few pops follow it, then silence. Persis and I look out the dirty front windows to see a biker swing off his Harley and remove his helmet.
And I’m suddenly watching the biker version ofBaywatch.
His raven-black hair falls in slow motion to his shoulders and glints in the sunlight as he shakes his head from side to side. He shoulders off his leather jacket to reveal full-sleeve tattoos on each arm.
We watch as he walks around the bike, securing the helmet and locking things down. Then, he turns and stares directly through the window. Right at me. His indigo eyes bore right through the glass and grime and straight into my soul.
“Mad, bad, and dangerous to know,” I whisper.
The corner of his mouth quirks up.
I gasp.
No fucking way he heard me.
“I’m not into watching sunsets, but I’d love to watch that man go down,” Persis fans herself beside me.
I was feeling a little warm myself.
I elbow her in the hip. “Keep it together, woman.”
