Burke dropped me at the corner, not wanting to risk Dennis seeing. As I got out, he said, “If you ever need out, for real, you call me.”
I nodded. “I will.”
It was only after I walked the last block, heartbeat wild in my chest, that I realized I’d left my phone in his truck. Maybe that was an accident. Maybe it wasn’t. Either way, I knew he’d bring it back.
And maybe, next time, I’d finally let myself believe it was safe to answer.
Chapter Three
~ Burke ~
I could never get the Black Butte Ranch control room to stop smelling like burnt coffee and solder, no matter how many times I overhauled the wiring or “deep cleaned” with half a bottle of Purell. Maybe it was haunted by the ghosts of a hundred failed DIY projects—mine, mostly—or maybe my nose had just gotten too good for its own damn good.
Either way, the only thing thicker than the smell was the buzzing in my skull, which made it impossible to focus on anything except the memory of Danny’s skin—specifically, the way it looked under industrial lighting when you got close enough to see the faint golden fuzz on his neck.
I was supposed to be re-routing the feed from the new barn cam, but my fingers kept slipping on the tiny, bastardly screws. So I did what any tech wizard with a complex about appearing weak would do: I jammed the connector until it fit, zapped myself, and swore in three languages.
The blue spark made my vision go staticky.
“Jesus, Burke. You trying to fry yourself again?” Rawley’s voice boomed through the open door, a human warning siren with a limp.
I didn’t look up. “Some of us have to create our own excitement, since you won’t let us keep explosives on the property.”
Rawley filled the doorway, arms folded across his chest like a ref at a cage match. If you ignored the ranch jeans, the battered tee, and the visible contempt for civilian life, you could almost picture him in uniform again. He scanned the table, the half-assembled screen, the loose wires, and—most damning—the cup of untouched coffee going cold by my elbow.
“Thought you said you’d have the system up by lunch,” he said, a note of real disappointment under the bravado.
“I did. Technically, it’s already up.” I pointed at the flickering monitor, which cycled through night vision shots of the silo, the chicken run, and—because I never missed a chance for performance art—the inside of the liquor cabinet. “It’s just not… optimal.”
He grunted, not buying it for a second. “What’s eating you?”
I risked a glance at him, hoping he’d be distracted by the monitor’s pornographic view of the whiskey stash. No such luck. Rawley had that “concerned officer” look, which was only slightly more annoying than his “annoyed brother-in-arms” look.
I debated for half a second how to play it. Denial? Overkill? The truth, wrapped in a joke and dipped in sarcasm?
“Nothing. Just tired. Too much tomato talk with Jojo, and you know how that scrambles my critical faculties.”
He arched an eyebrow, unimpressed.
I sighed, propped my feet on the desk, and spun the chair a lazy half-turn. “Fine. You want the real answer? I’ve got this omega in my head, and he’s not paying rent. It’s screwing with my sense of purpose.”
Rawley’s expression barely flickered, but I caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. “You mean the one at the garden center? I figured as much. You only get like this when there’s a ‘project’ you can’t fix.”
He made air quotes around project, which was rich coming from a guy who’d turned ranch management into a military-grade obsession.
“It’s not a project,” I said, more defensive than intended. “He’s just—”
“—different?” Rawley finished, knowing damn well that was the word I’d been using in my head since Saturday.
“Yeah. But also…” I trailed off, thinking about the shape of the bruise under Danny’s sleeve and the way he’d flinched when I’d touched it. I could still smell his fear, sharp as vinegar, even though it had been over a day. “Never mind.”
Rawley didn’t press. That was one thing I respected about him—he knew when to let a silence hang. I filled it anyway, because I hated loose ends.
“You know what bugs me? Every time I think about seeing him again, my brain tries to logic its way out of it. Like, what’s my endgame? I don’t do relationships. I don’t even do breakfast with people unless there’s a hangover involved.”
“So don’t see him,” Rawley said, as if that was an actual option.
“Can’t,” I said. “It’s a… scent thing.”
