Since I’d rather not get acquainted with the barrel of that shotgun, I raise my hands. The other guests do the same when a crash comes from the kitchen.
“I hear ya hidin’ there,” the robber snaps. “Come on out. Slowly. Put your hands up if you wanna keep ‘em attached to your body.”
His voice reminds me of somebody, I just can’t say who.
The kitchen door swings open and the waitress exits, clutching her notepad above her head. A chubby, middle-aged man with a ponytail follows. He’s sweating profusely, eyes bulging with terror. Must be the cook.
“If I spot any of y’all fiddlin’ with a phone to call the police I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out!” the masked man growls.
A deafening bang echoes through the space as he pulls the trigger and a bottle of ketchup on a table by the door shatters. Glass splinters across the floor, red spattering the tabletop.
Fuck. This is how I’m gonna die.
I escaped prison, but now I’m gonna die because Rust forgot his stupid wallet and he isn’t here to save my sorry ass from?—
The man’s head tilts. His eyes land on me for the first time, crinkling with a hidden smile and I find myself smiling back.
What the hell is wrong with me?
But wait, I recognize that chocolate-brown gaze.
Now on closer inspection and in less of a panic, I also recognize those freshly polished boots and theplain black Henley stretching over his biceps. It looks like the same one Rust wore under his button up after his morning shower. He put on a thicker drawl and lowered his voice, but it’s definitely him.
My jaw drops.
Rust is the robber.
37
TALLY
I daredmy ex-husband to up his outlaw game, so he’s holding up a diner to get me wet.
And it’s working.
Rust gives me an almost imperceptible wink and it’s rainy season in my panties while my nipples attempt to poke holes in my T-shirt.
This crazy stunt is why he parked around back where nobody could see the truck—or him. He made me go ahead so he could change into his robber attire and put on the mask.
Rust juts his chin at me. “You, the pretty redhead. Be a good girl and git.” He gestures the shotgun at the ground beside him.
I almost turn into a puddle. This isn’t fair.
He can’t bring out the infamous ‘git.’ That’s every Southern woman’s weakness. And then in combination with a growled ‘good girl’?
Signed, sealed, delivered—I’m his.
Goodbye, brain. Hello, slut mode.
The others must think I’m terrified whenmy knees knock as I get up, but it ain’t fear coursing through me. It’s primal arousal.
This is sick. Sicker than the cornfield or the arson at the state fair. This time, we’re getting a bunch of strangers involved, but I can’t deny how turned on I am.
When I reach Rust, the familiar scent of his pine and woodsmoke soap fills my nose. If I had any doubts, this smell would confirm his identity.
He takes my chin between his forefinger and thumb, angling my face up.
“Are you gonna do as I say or am I gonna have to introduce you to my angry little friend here?” He presses the shotgun barrel against my ribs and leans in close to whisper. “Consider this your punishment for the game you played on the Ferris wheel.”
