“What do you need?” he asks because that’s the kind of man he is. Honest and dependable, he’d offer a stranger the shirt off his back. If he can help, he will. Whether he’s on the clock or not.
“This stays off the record,” I add. “I’ve got a woman at my place and she’s in deep shit.”
Another beat passes.
“That serious?”
“We’re talking bikers with dirty cops in their pockets.”
Leaning against a stack of oak, I scan the road out of habit, looking for movement that isn’t there.
“You vouch for her?”
Her face flashes through my head without warning. The way she handed over her phone without arguing. The way she looked at me like I was the only thing standing between her and danger.
“Yes.”
That’s all he needs to hear. The call ends, and I move on to the next one without hesitating.
Walker picks up with a grunt, “Aren’t you supposed to be working?”
“Need eyes on my place,” I tell him, not in any mood for his bullshit. “I’ve got a woman who needs protection.”
A shift happens on his end, subtle but immediate.
“How bad?”
“Bad enough I’m calling you.”
He exhales and I can hear the creak of wood as he gets moving.
“On my way.”
“Take the trail head. Don’t make let anyone see you, not even her.”
“You finally bring someone home and of course she brings nothing but trouble.”
“Walker.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll handle it.”
The line goes dead.
Vance answers next, then another number I haven’t used in months. None of them ask for details. None of them need them. By the time I’m done, there are enough people on watch that anyone coming up that mountain looking for trouble is going to regret it.
Sloane doesn’t need to know any of that. All she needs to know is that she’s safe.
The rest of my shift is pure torture. Hours later when I finally step into my cabin, her faint citrus scent still lingers in the air and hits me like a drug. I can still taste her, sweet, hesitant, and hungry.
Then I see her.
Standing in my kitchen, hands braced on the counter like she’s trying to ground herself. Relief hits harder than it should, especially since her car is in the driveway.
“You made it,” I say.
Her head lifts fast, eyes landing on mine like a startled rabbit.
“It’s a miracle I made it without my GPS,” she jokes before gesturing vaguely toward the door. “I didn’t want to just sit around, so I looked at the truck in your garage.”
