Tank heads for the tech center in the front of the warehouse, and the SEAL leans down and clasps me on the shoulder. “Talk to him, Raelynn. If he’s worth it, he’ll understand.”
I meet the SEAL’s gaze for all of a second before I have to look away. “Thanks, West. For not givin’ up on me.”
He holds on for a beat, then straightens. “This is a family, Raelynn. And family sticks.”
Nash
A fresh breeze ruffles my hair as I walk along the waterfront. After Raelynn kicked me out, I drove around for an hour, then headed down to Georgetown to work on the chairs for Broadcast. But I couldn’t focus.
I thought we had a real connection this morning. One that might keep me in Seattle for more than a few months. But with one careless word, I fucked it all up. I shouldn’t care. Moving on is smarter. Safer. I can’t stop thinking about the guy who bumped into me the other day. About the hit and run. Twice last night, I even started to call Duncan. The former U.S. Marshal has been retired for years—since before Frank died—but he still has connections.
Would he know if the DeLucas are still after me?
I kick a rock into the gutter. We should have been safe in Chicago. Even safer in Minnesota. My father wasn’t involved in his family’s business and the DeLucas knew that. Yet they came after us anyway.
Dammit. Tension tightens a band around my forehead. I have to stop. Going down this road usually ends with me passing out after a hell of a lot of tequila. Not this time.
I check behind me and turn down a different side street. I’m safe. No one’s following me. I should relax. It’s a warm, spring day. The sun’s shining, and though the morning turned into a shit show of epic proportions, there’s been no sign of trouble since the hit and run. Even so, “Uncle” Duncan would tell me to get gone. “Better safe than sorry.” I can almost hear his voice now.
I’ll finish the work on Raelynn’s heater tomorrow, then walk away.
If only I could forget her as easily.
If I’m honest, I don’t want to leave Seattle. Not now. Maybe not for months. Or longer. For the first time in years, I’m putting down roots. I don’t know when it happened, but I consider Adam a friend.
And there’s Raelynn. Despite how we left things this morning, the spark between us is too powerful to ignore. If she can forgive me, I want to see where this goes.
I keep walking, almost on autopilot, until I find myself just up the hill from one of my favorite places in Seattle.
Olympic Sculpture Park spans several city blocks, and as I approach the outdoor art installation, a sigh escapes my lips. Years ago, Frank and I would come here once a week—if it wasn’t raining—sit on the benches that overlook Puget Sound, and watch the ferries go by.
One speeds across the water, headed for Bainbridge Island. “Wish you were here, Pops. Even if you would tell me to get the hell out of town.”
The paved path winds around half a dozen different works of art, and I take my time, averting my gaze from a group of people following a tour guide through the park.
My favorite piece—a thirty-foot Eagle sculpture made of red steel—soothes the last of my raw nerves. Raelynn promised she’d text me later, and I don’t get the sense she’s one to lie.
Unlike me. One of these days, I’m going to disappear, and I won’t be able to tell her a damn thing.
I don’t have a choice. Hiding the truth has kept me alive for twenty years. But I’m so fucking lonely. God, I wish I had someone to talk to. Someone who knows my secrets. Who understands why I have to be so careful.
A loud beep startles me, and I pull out my old flip phone.
Raelynn: Little Red Hen in Green Lake has line dancing every Saturday at 7.
I stare at the screen, confused. Is there another message coming?
Something like:
Come on down.
Want to meet me there?
Let’s go.
But after five minutes, the phone is still silent. Fuck. Do I just show up at seven and hope for the best? No. Not after this morning.
This ancient hunk of plastic doesn’t have a full keyboard, but I manage a short reply that I hope will get a rise out of her.
