Page 23 of Venomous Games

Where is my little dynamite heading to this late?

THIRTEEN

MAVEN

Carrie has thankfully been seeing a therapist almost every day this week. I sent groceries to her place and made sure her rent was paid for the next month. The rest of the week, I’ve stuck to working out, keeping up with my running, and trying to eat healthy. Plus, reading smut. Honestly, that’s probably my favorite thing to do these days. It’s the only action I’m getting.

When I run, I switch to audiobooks. Headphones in, volume just low enough that no one else can hear the filth pouring straight into my brain. It takes the edge off … a little.

Not enough, though.

Not lately.

I’ve felt it building all week; that restless, pent-up energy sitting just under my skin, making it hard to stay still, even harder to sleep. Which is how I end up here, of all places, staring at the empty parking lot like it’s personally offended me.

I just needed out.

Out of the apartment.

Out of my head.

The ride helped. The Ducati growling beneath me, the wind cutting through the heat in my body, the speed fast enough that everything else falls away for a few blessed minutes. It’s the closest thing I get to quiet. Or good sex. But I’m hoping something in this particular store will help with that.

I’m also well aware I’ve had eyes on me all week.

Not his. Someone else’s.

And I’d bet good money that he’s the one who put the tail on me.

The neon lights above the store flicker as I pull off my helmet and then shake my hair loose before hooking it over the handlebars. As I’m walking toward the entrance, I hear it.

An engine I recognize.

I turn, already knowing what I’m going to see. Boston’s car rolls in like he owns the place; no hesitation, no attempt to hide it. He parks, kills the engine, and for a second, everything goes quiet again.

Then he steps out.

Boston doesn’t rush. He never does. The door shuts with a solid, deliberate thud, and he takes his time coming around the car, shoulders loose, gaze already locked on me like I’m the only thing in the parking lot worth noticing.

His stride is unhurried, but there’s intention behind it, steady and purposeful. Like he knows exactly where he’s going and that nothing’s going to get in his way. Each step lands clean, controlled, eating up the distance without wasting an ounce of energy.

It’s … distracting.

Annoyingly so.

I shift my weight, my core pulsing with every step he takes, hand settling on my hip before I even realize I’m doing it, like I’m bracing for him.

Or challenging him.

Or…

Fuck.

Maybe I really do need to get laid.

How is it that his walking in my direction with his eyes locked on mine makes my stomach flip? It’s unfair, really.

“Stalking me still, Detective?” I purr as he gets closer. His gaze glides over my leathers, and I can’t help it when my own gaze flicks to the gun in his holster.