The penny’s metallic clank against concrete brings me back to the present, and I swallow hard. I found it my first day of school back in Denver. It had been run over so many times, it was half flattened, most of the detail worn clean off the front, but that just made it perfect.
No matter how many times we moved or how often we had to start over, I never failed to bring Mae’s stuffed sloth and this penny with me.
I don’t want to look. But I have to.
Tails.
Fuck.
It’s never steered you wrong. Not once. Stay long enough to help Adam open the new location, then get gone. Somewhere new.
I’ve never been to Montana. Or Tennessee. Or Utah.
I can come back. Eventually. Four or five years on the road and I’ll do another stint in Seattle. Or hell—just visit once in a while.
More than anything, I wish I could stop running. Or get so tired, I just won’t care.
Raelynn
At five on the dot, I wheel a fresh cart of towels out from the back room. The Tuesday night Intro to Krav Maga class is just starting, and West leads the group of eight men and women through a warmup exercise.
Damn if I don’t want to be out there with them.
Only a few more days, and Doc Reynolds will clear me so I can get back to my life. Until then, I’m trapped on the sidelines.
I hate the sidelines.
“Krav Maga teaches you how to defend yourself—no matter your fitness level, weight, height, or physical limitations,” West says from the front of the room. “Rule number one: Everyone in this class deserves to be here. Rule number two: If something hurts, speak up immediately. Rule number three: Some of what you’re going to learn tonight might scare you. If you need a minute, take it. Water cooler is in the corner. Any questions?”
No one says a word, and I move to one of the heavy bags. As West teaches the class how to break a chokehold, I start off with some light jabs and crosses. I’d lose to an eighty-year-old with how little power I’m putting behind my blows, but at least I’m doing something.
I run through all the moves West has shown me over the past six months—modified for the still-healing injury.
Doc Reynolds would rat me out to Ryker if he knew I was pushing myself like this, but being at the dojo is part of my cover. I have to work out. At least that’s what I tell myself.
Every member of Hidden Agenda needs a “day job.” A fake identity—and a way to make a few extra bucks between missions. When I showed up, one of West’s junior instructors had just quit, so I took his place. The former SEAL doesn’t trust me to teach classes on my own yet, but I assisted more than once before I went and fucked up my shoulder.
Half an hour later, the class is almost over and my legs are shaking. The few times I met West’s gaze in the mirror, I could feel his disapproval. I’ll catch hell for overdoing it.
Unless I get out of here first. Maybe he’ll forget by tomorrow night when he’s supposed to train us on the new drones Ryker spent a fortune on.
Just one more round.
A glare blinds me through the windows on my second jab. The heavy bag swings wildly, my punch glancing off the side. I lose track of it—until it hip-checks me and sends me stumbling.
I expect to go down, but instead, hit a wall that smells like fresh cut wood and spice.
“I’ve got you,” a smooth voice rumbles in my ear. Strong arms tighten around my waist. He’s solid. And warm. Steady.
For one—almost perfect—moment, I don’t breathe. No one’s held me in four years. But then West calls a halt to the class.
Wriggling free, I take a step back and give the man who saved me from landing on my ass a once over.
“Are you all right?” he asks, shoving his hands into the pockets of his black sweatpants.
“Sweeter than stolen honey,” I say with a smile.
What the hell?
