Hunter gave me my instructions on the phone last night. Go to Dusty's Diner. Sit in a private booth near the front door, by the window. At midday, text a number with my table and a description of what I'm wearing. Someone will come.
It's a test. That much is obvious. He wants to see if I'll follow orders. If I'll show up. If I'll sit in a booth in broad daylight and trust a stranger to walk through that door without knowing who it is or what happens next.
I won't go to Sterling Ranch. I made that clear, and I think Hunter understands why. He knew me when I was with Ace. He watched his little brother fall apart when I left. He probablydoesn't want me within a mile of that property any more than I want to be there.
Or maybe Lola helped my case. I spent an evening with her last time I was in New Falls, helping her track down Hunter when he was in jail. She was a breath of fresh air for that family. I liked her. Liked her enough to help. And I think she put a word in for me, because Hunter's tone on the phone was cautious, but not cold.
I trust him because he's Ace's brother. Because he knows my parents. Because I don't believe Hunter Sterling is a bad person. Dangerous, yes, but not bad. And because I'm not here to destroy his family. I'm here to protect them.
And because Gianna Milano is expecting results. And Gianna Milano doesn't give second chances.
The clock on the diner wall ticks to twelve. I pick up my phone.
Me: Table 31. Blond hair and white top.
Send.
I take a sip of milkshake through the straw and stare at the door.
Thirty seconds. A minute. The waitress refills someone's coffee two booths down. A trucker at the counter is arguing about the Diamondbacks. The bell above the door jingles every time someone enters, and my heart slams against my ribs each time.
Then the door crashes open.
And a man walks in wearing aviator sunglasses and a shirt covered in flamingos.
Surely not.
He's tall. Broad. Dark hair under a black cowboy hat. A fading bruise around one eye that suggests he's been in a fight recently.
But the shirt. That eye sore of a shirt.
He pulls off the aviators and scans the room. His eyes land on my table card. Then on me. Then on the card again. Then back to me.
He freezes.
I keep my face neutral, watching him process. Something's thrown him, and I don't know what. Maybe he was expecting a man. Maybe he was expecting someone older, harder, more threatening. Not a twenty-six-year-old in a skirt with a melting milkshake.
He strides over. If he weren't wearing that shirt, he'd be terrifying. The shirt turns him into something else entirely, a bouncer at a tiki bar, maybe. A man who got dressed in the dark and committed to the mistake.
He slides into the booth opposite me and clears his throat. And when his dark eyes meet mine, I see it. That Sterling family resemblance. The jaw. The cheekbones. The way his eyes hold mine with an intensity that's genetic.
"Are you the journalist?" he asks quietly, leaning across the table.
"Yes."
He nods and sits back. I’m trying to place him. He’s not one of Ace’s brothers.
"I'm going to need you to come with me. In my truck. It's for Hunter."
"Yeah. I know. Hunter told me."
He blinks at me.
"Right," he mutters. "Finish your drink then." He tosses a fifty on the table for a four-dollar milkshake and stands.
I leave the milkshake and follow him out. The Arizona heat hits me the second we step outside. It’s easy to forget how aggressive the sun is here.
He opens the passenger door of his truck. It's a black F-250, lifted, mud on the wheel arches, a lasso hanging from the gun rack in the back window.
