Page 93 of Nash

“Hopefully. Turner grabbed Grant’s gun from his chest holster and pulled the trigger. He had on a vest, but it was at close range. They’re checking him for internal trauma.”

“And Turner escaped? I thought you killed him.”

“I should’ve,” he says. “But we were getting intel, zeroing in on his base. You’re right. It’s in Beaufort, and we were trying to make him crack to tell us where.”

“So where is Turner now?”

“He jumped off Axel’s boat, and either he drowned in the Wando River, or his preppy swim team ass is on his way here or anywhere he or his men think they can find you or me.”

“Dammit, this is deja-vu.”

“I know.” He grabs my arm. “And I’m sorry.Again. But I don’t have time to feel anything, nor do you.”

I jerk my arm out of his grasp and yank a pair of my black jean shorts from the duffel on the floor. Tugging them on, I toe on my Mary Janes, too. Then, I grab my laptop, a vibrator, some lube, and my copy ofHow To Date Men When You Hate Menand shove them in the duffel, all under Nash’s irate glare.

“Take this book, too.” He storms to my male genitalia stack, and he grabs the book off the top:How To Live With A Big Penis.He waves it in my face. “You’re gonna be stuck with me again, so study this real hard, poison.”

I swat it away. “It’s romantasy, not reality.”

“It’s time to fucking go,” he says.

Slinging the duffel over his shoulder, he taps it twice, and I roll my eyes, grabbing it, letting him lead the way, his gun held down and ready while we wind down two flights of stairs outside. My heart is pounding, my body sweating, and not because the threat of Turner has returned.

It’s this threat: touching Nash again. His warmth and muscles too familiar and heart-breaking.

A new, white Dodge Charger is waiting where he usually parks his Accord. He opens the passenger door and orders, “Get in. “

I do, noting aloud, “This screams I-Got-A-Little-Dick-So-I-Drive-A-Big-Engine, you know that, right?”

“My Mini Cooper’s in the shop,” he says, slamming my door.

But it settles in as Nash drives. We’re silent. We feel the stress of the threat, the relief of being in it together, and the grief that this won’t last. We’ll have to say goodbye again.

I’m not afraid. The only concern I have is for Grant.

“When will we know about Grant?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” he answers, taking the bridge to Folly Island.

“Is someone with him at the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Can we play twenty questions later?”

“No,” I snap. “Let’s play a hundred questions right now.” I turn toward him, his sexy profile making me so damn curious. “How do you make your queens?”

“Jesus.” He rolls his eyes.

“Oh, is Jesus involved? Hallejulah.” I narrow mine. “Answer me, or I’ll start singing Bible hymns. I was a horrible Girl Scout who murdered them all.”

His face falls, amused, relaxed, silent.

“Alright.” I shrug. “You asked for Jesus, and here he comes.” I start swaying and singing, “The Lord said to Noah there’s gonna be a floody, floody. Get those children.” Clap! “Out of the muddy, muddy! Children of the Lord. So rise and shine and give God your glory, glory…”

And the dickhead doesn’t stop me.

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