Song- Bodies, Drowning Pool
Violet asked me to pick up a dress from the boutique on Main Street. She asked nicely, which is rare for her, so I said yes. Plus, it gets me out of the house. Out of the silence. Out of the routine of training, riding, working, sleeping, and staring at a phone that never lights up with the name I want.
I need the air. I need to move. I need to feel human again, instead of being a ghost rattling around a house built for two.
I take the long way into town because the morning is clear and the road is quiet, and Seven could use the rest after yesterday's ride. The truck hums along the back roads, windows down, dust kicking up behind me.
I clock the car at the junction.
Not the dark sedan. This time, a silver SUV with tinted windows. Sitting at the turnoff that leads to the highway, engine idling. I pass it without slowing. Check the rearview. It pulls out behind me.
They keep their distance. Three, four car lengths. Matching my speed. When I slow, it slows. When I take the turn onto Main, it takes the turn onto Main.
That's two different vehicles in a week.
I park outside the boutique. The SUV rolls past without stopping. Keeps going down Main and disappears around the corner. Could be nothing. Could be everything.
I grab my hat, lock the truck, and head inside.
The boutique is small. Janet, the lady behind the counter, recognizes me and smiles too wide, the way people in this town do when a Sterling walks in. I give her the order number. She disappears into the back and returns with a garment bag.
"Tell Violet it's gorgeous. She's going to love it," she says.
"I'll pass that on. Thank you, ma'am."
I step back onto Main Street. The sun is high. A few people are on the sidewalk. A truck idles outside the hardware store. I sling the garment bag over my shoulder and start walking back toward my truck.
And I feel it.
That prickle. That cold, crawling sensation at the back of my neck that I've learned to trust more than my eyes. Someone is behind me. Matching my pace. Close enough that I can hear boot heels on the sidewalk, slightly out of rhythm with mine.
I don't turn around. Don't speed up. Just walk. I’m just a cowboy carrying a dress bag through his hometown on a Saturday morning.
I pass my truck. Keep walking. If whoever's behind me thinks I'm heading somewhere predictable, they'll stay close. If I lead them somewhere quiet, I control the ground.
I cut left between the hardware store and the old feed mill. The alley is narrow. Dumpsters along one wall, a chain-link fence at the far end. No cameras. No windows. And most important, no witnesses.
I stop. Set the garment bag down on a crate.
The footsteps behind me stop too.
I turn around.
He's mid-thirties. Stocky. Dark jacket despite the heat. One hand in his pocket. He's trying to look casual and failing. His shoulders are too tight, his breathing is too fast, and his eyes keep flicking to the mouth of the alley behind him.
"You've been following me for three blocks," I say. "So either you want an autograph, or we've got a problem."
He doesn't answer. His hand comes out of his pocket.
Knife. Fixed blade. He holds it low against his thigh, the way someone trained holds a knife. Not waving it around.
"Who sent you?" I ask.
Nothing. He takes a step forward.
"I asked you a question," I press. I ain’t in the mood for this shit.
Another step. His grip shifts on the handle. He's going to come at me. I can see it building in the weight transfer to his front foot, the slight drop of his shoulder.
