When I was twenty-two, I spent three nights in holding—refusing to give my name and refusing to call James. Part of me would’ve rather ripped my molars out with pliers than hear his voice. But the real reason is that I knew I’d screwed up. Bad. And I wasn’t ready to own it.
It was a simple job, a nice starter for a twenty-two-year-old still in college—make a murder look like a suicide. Since I was already in the city, James tossed it to me instead of Arnold. And when I say “tossed,” I mean shoved down my throat while I should have been cramming for finals.
But I made an amateur mistake. When I went to torch what I had used, the inventory wasn’t adding up. I went in with two gloves and came out with one. Just a cheap nitrile glove. But mine. My DNA. My fuck-up.
I had to go back to the scene and get it.
It had only been a few hours, and I slipped in the way I had before. But I hadn’t realized that the fancy high-rise building had housekeeping and that a woman had already witnessed the body and gone down to get help.
And I was in the goddamn suite when security brought her back.
They detained me until NYPD showed up, and I had no choice but to eat the fucking glove. It was either that or give James more ammo against me. I chose to swallow the thing whole—an obstruction in my intestines preferable. Luckily, I was able to throw it up and flush it at the station a few hours later.
Eventually, I called Arnold. He looped in James. They got me out.
But I learned a valuable fucking lesson.
Never go back to the scene of a crime.
So tell me why I’m parked at the bottom of Horizon Bluff, engine idling, watching Kira Noland step out of some stranger’s car.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel as I come to terms with the fact that this girl is going to be the death of me. Because while Ishouldlet her hike up there and get herself caught and leave behind trace pieces of evidence, I know I’m not going to. I’m going to follow after her. I’m going to carry her right back to my car. I’m going to break my own goddamn rule and probably getmyselfcaught because I’m a weak man who can’t resist Kira Noland.
If it were anyone else, I would relish their stupidity and let them incriminate themselves to cover my own ass. But why is she being stupid? I told her I would handle everything. And who is this guy that she led right to the scene? Not her father. I know that much. The grapevine says their father has been out of the picture for years. So who the fuck is this guy?
I commit his plate number to memory as he pulls away, leaving a disheveled-looking Kira in the gravel.
At least she had the good sense to wear sneakers, but the threadbare hoodie she’s wearing only has one sleeve pushed up while the other falls past her fingertips. Her hair is up but sagging in the holder, little pieces sticking to her neck, and—my jaw clenches as she turns her back on my view to make her wayup the bluff. Is she in her fucking underwear? Jesus Christ. The hem barely brushes the top of her thighs, outlining the curve of her ass in a way that makes my blood heat and my temper snap. She has to be in her underwear. They don’t make shorts that short, do they?
And she got into that guy’s car like that?!
With a growl, I rip the keys from the ignition and slam the door before darting across the highway.
The slope is steep and all loose rock, and I’m surprised when I have to pick up the pace to keep her in view. Isn’t she supposed to be recovering from a heart attack? Jesus, why is she moving so fast? I start into a light jog to catch up, not worried about her hearing me over her own huffing, but I keep my distance. I’m curious as to what the fuck would make her come back out here.
Yeah, it’s a nice fall day and perfect for a hike, the soft breeze throwing evergreen needles at my feet with the scent of damp soil and dry bark, but Kira’s not here to enjoy the scenery.
And neither am I.
Locking my jaw, I swat at a gnat and continue to follow her.
I pay close attention to the way her shoulders tense as she climbs, the way her legs shake under that too-short hoodie, and it yanks my brain right back to her kitchen. The way she gripped my shoulders, the way her thighs trembled around my waist. Fuck. I wanted her. I want her right now, even if she is risking us getting caught. I shouldn’t be this turned on when I’m fuming, but I am.
Fucking Kira Noland.
She reaches the car park and then veers off into the foliage where we hauled Marshal up. But not even ten feet up the route, she sways. Her balance shifts and her foot slips, but she catches herself on a tree trunk. I half expect her to stop now and realize this is stupid of her, but that wouldn’t be very Kira Noland of her, and of course, she doesn’t. Stubborn.
And I suddenly realize it doesn’t matter why she came here. This is reckless. What matters is that she shouldn’t be out here with a heart condition.
I push off my heels and catch up with her before she hits the real incline.
“Kira.” I stop just a few feet below her when I realize she still can’t hear me trailing her. “Kira!”
Finally, she startles, spinning around wildly and almost slipping again.
Her eyes are wide like a child who’s been caught. “What—” she pants, steadying herself and swallowing, “what are you doing here?!” She finds her anger.
But I can’t even enjoy it—and Idoenjoy the way her brown eyes narrow at me—because we need to put some distance between us and the scene. And she needs to lie down. She’s absolutely drenched in sweat, and there isn’t a hint of color in her lips.
