Ryker smirks. “Silky hair?”
I frown. “You know what I mean.”
“I use whatever’s available at the motel,” Ryker flips his stupid silky hair over his stupid muscled shoulder. “Do you want me to do that again in slow motion so you can appreciate it more?”
“Ugh!” I grunt and turn back to the pile of clothing in front of me. I squeeze all of the fabric. Every item has a tracker sewn into the seams. For both of us. Even the duffel bags.
“Damn it,” I flop onto the picnic table bench.
“What?”
“I liked those jeans,” I point.
“Seems we need to go shopping.”
“We’re probably wearing trackers on the stuff we have on.”
Ryker raises an eyebrow. “Why, Kitten. Are you suggesting we get naked?”
My face heats. Damn it. “No. Don’t be an idiot.”
I toss the duffel and all the clothes into the trash, only carrying the file with me inside the gas station. Thankfully, this is Florida, and just about every gas station has some sort of souvenir clothing rack. I snag shirts and shorts for both of us, then head to the register to pay.
“What about shoes?” I point to a rack. “Flip-flops?”
Ryker shakes his head. “Can’t ride with flip-flops. Not safe.”
I roll my eyes and grab the bag of clothes. “Well?”
Ryker looks through the three-inch-thick bulletproof glass surrounding the cashier. “Do you have a clock radio around here somewhere?”
The cashier, who has more pimples than sense, points behind him where a 1980s G.E. clock radio is half-spitting out music from a Christian Rock station. The other half is static.
“Mind if we borrow that for a few minutes?” Ryker asks.
“I don’t know,” Pimple Cashier hedges.
Ryker pulls out a twenty. “Twenty bucks for five minutes.”
The kid doesn’t even let Ryker finish talking. He yanks the cord from the wall and shoves the radio through the slit in the glass. “Hell, for twenty bucks, you can have the damn thing.”
Ryker grins and heads outside. He plugs the radio into the outlet running the ice cooler, and points to my shoes. I sit on the concrete next to the cooler and take off my tennis shoes with a sigh.
My partner runs them over the clock radio. The clock radio lets out a squeal when he gets to the heels. Ryker whips out a smaller knife. Where he was hiding that thing, I have no idea. But, with the precision of a surgeon, he slides his blade in between the shoe and the sole, digs around a second then pops out the tracker. He repeats the process on all of our shoes.
He hands me my runners and slides his feet back into his boots.
I give him his replacement clothes for the day and smile. “Alrighty, Mr. Tourist. Let’s get changed. We have places to be.”
Chapter 18
“What? She needs clothes.”
-Ryker
I look ridiculous.
Even if I weren’t aware of this fact, Kitten’s snickers would have been a dead giveaway.
