Page 8 of Levi

“That doesn’t mean one damn thing to me, Blondie,” he says. “All I know is this blanket is the only warm thing in this house. Go get my duffel bag and let’s go. It’s upstairs.”

He pushes himself to sitting and his boots go to the floor. Standing takes visible effort, with a hangover built on tequila and chemicals. He sways for a moment and I step toward him. To what? Catch him if he starts to fall? My hands are already half up for it. He’s a big man, warm and creased with sleep, and catching him would mean an armful of exactly that. I put my hands back down. He doesn’t ask where the apartment is or how long the drive will take. He shuffles slowly toward the door.

“Go grab his duffel bag in the upstairs bedroom while I’ve got him moving,” I whisper to Benji who takes off flying up the stairs.

“Can you move any faster?” I ask. “Do you need help?”

“No, to both,” he says.

I blow out a deep, calming breath. Three hours and counting down.

We can do this. We’ve handled much worse.

I’m not even breaking a sweat yet.

Chapter 3: Levi

Before I stood up, I crammed my phone deep down in the couch cushions. If my phone stays at the beach house coordinates, Freddie’s tracking dashboard shows him exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Obedient, and staying put.

I’ve been managed for eight years. I know how the leash works better than the man holding it.

Freddie doesn’t know about the double-booking or the real estate agent with the showing, and I’m not going to tell him. If I call Freddie, he fixes it in five minutes. New rental house, new cage. The crack in his system closes and I go back to being contained. But if I keep my mouth shut, the crack is mine.

As of this moment, I have leverage over somebody else for the first time in probably my whole damn life. Plus, a roomful of brokers coming here means a roomful of phones. There’s no way at least one of them won’t recognize me.

The real estate guy is standing there, keys in his hand, waiting for me to move faster than I’m capable of moving. I walk past him and take a good look. He’s tall, maybe an inch on me, and built lean under an expensive shirt. His skin is tanned in a way that isn’t from a beach but from family, from somewhere warm a long way south of here. His jaw is clean-shaved and his hands on the car keys are long-fingered, the nails manicured. His hair is dark, pushed back, every strand perfect. And his voice has a rhythm to it that I can’t quite place. A Spanish accent that lives in the vowels.

He’s the most handsome man I’ve seen in forever and that’s the last thing I need to be noticing today. I get in the car and try not to stare at him.

Though I could, for hours, and not get tired of the view.

The SUV is white, spotless inside, and it smells faintly of his cologne. Little Blondie comes running out of the house in his flip-flops, struggling with my heavy duffel bag. The real estate guy takes the bag from him and throws it into the back of the SUV, Blondie runs back inside yelling about flowers, and then we’re off to this guy’s apartment.

He drives fast but controlled, hands placed at ten and two like somebody taught him properly. His jaw is set and his focus is straight ahead, fixed on the road. At first, I think he’s angry, then realize I’m wrong. This isn’t anger. He’s one hundred percent focused on handling the situation.

Specifically, me.

“So,” I say, because the dead silence is getting to me. “How long have you been selling houses in a cult compound?”

He throws me a quick glance. “Alys Beach is not a cult compound,” he says. “It’s the highest-valued planned community on the Gulf Coast.”

“Could’ve fooled me. It looks like somebody tried to build a rich man’s version of heaven and ran out of budget for people. Where are all the people?”

“It’s an architectural community designed around—”

“White.”

“Bermudian and Central American design principles,” he continues.

“Nah, it’s a cult,” I say again. “A cult needs three things, and I’m keeping score. One, a compound with walls. This place is bleached to the sidewalks and empty as a Sunday morning. Check.”

“It’s a planned community.”

“Two, a uniform.” I look him over, slow, not hiding that I’m doing it. “Small sample so far, but the one member I’ve met is head to toe in white linen with his nails done. Check.”

“It’s linen because it’s a hundred degrees out.”