Page 29 of Intrepid

Irritated, I set the phone back on the nightstand and lifted my textbook, as if I could concentrate on that again. As if I wasn’t so goddamn pissed off I could chuck my book across the room, along with my phone. After all, the book represented my father—another man in my life from whom I’d have loved to cut ties.

HIM: This isn’t Dane. It’s Ty.

Oh. For the briefest moment, I felt like shit, until I remembered that I hadn’t given Ty my number. Of course, Dane didn’t know that.

ME: Nice try, asshole.

That time, I lay the phone beside me on the bed, hoping to muffle the buzz of a future text.

HIM: Would Dane know that we were at Hotel Savarine?

HIM: That I gave you a ride on my Ducati?

What the hell? When the hell did Ty get my number? The last week filtered back in slow recollections of the few run-ins I’d had with him, during none of which I recalled having exchanged digits.

A creeping sensation crawled up my spine, teasing my instincts, one that felt all too familiar.

HIM: I need to see you again.

No. Hell, no. I’d had enough of stalkers.

ME: I told you before. I don’t date.

HIM: Who said it had to be a date? Maybe I just want to fuck you against the wall the way I had you at the club. Don’t you remember, Sera?

ME: Please don’t text me at this number again.

HIM: Sure about that? You looked pretty into it as I recall.

ME: I’m blocking you. Fuck off.

HIM: I wouldn’t do that if I were you.

I did, though. And when I set the phone down, I noticed the tremble that vibrated beneath my skin. I’d felt it once before.

I’d be damned if I’d let myself go through that again.

9

Jameson

Nine years ago …

The worn couch cushions held the pungent smell of piss, bad enough I choked back a gag. A scratched and broken coffee table separated Eli and me from Fox and the stuttering kid, Gideon. On the table in front of me sat a shot glass I was expected to throw back, like our generous hosts had moments before. I pushed away the proffered drink, eyeing Eli beside me, who stared into the amber liquid as though he didn’t know what to do. His knife had already been confiscated by Gideon—our only means of defense.

Fox handed me the blunt stuck out from his dry, cracked lips and those rotten teeth. “Smoke your heads off, boys. Ain’t nobody here to stop ya. Smoke and drink all ya want.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Sure ya do. You wouldn’t have come here if ya weren’t lookin’ for some trouble.”

“I’m not. Drinking.” Lips pressed to a hard line, I stared back in challenge.

Fox’s lips stretched to a sly grin, as he reached to his side and produced a grisly looking blade, with a long serrated edge—the second weapon he’d apparently been carrying. “You will drink, or you will begin to lose fingers. Take your pick, son.”

“I’m not your son,” I gritted, breathing slow through my nose to calm the anger seething in my blood.

“You callin’ my bluff, boy?”