Page 25 of Texas
“You need me.” For a beat, I want to tell her I don’t need anyone. Ever. But I know what she means so I reach out, and cup her cheek.
Her skin is warm. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll just bandage myself up and chill.”
She leans into my touch, then pulls back. “Promise me you’ll stay in the guesthouse. Lock the door.”
“I will.”
Stepping closer, she kisses me hard and fierce, then turns and walks back to the house. Her car pulls away five minutes later. She looks back once and waves. I watch her go, then walk into the guesthouse, lock the door, and sit on the edge of the bed. My elbow’s throbbing. My ribs feel bruised. The trucks are gone, but I still feel their eyes. I wanted them to come through that fence. I wanted to fight, and that part scares me. Not the trucks. Me.
Lying back, I stare at the ceiling and let the silence stretch. I try not to think about the violence, the threat, or the crackling edge of it all. Deep down, I think I wanted a reason to let go, and that’s not good. Suddenly, Kristin’s voice echoes in my head. “You need me.” I close my eyes. “Fuck,” I whisper. This just got real.
Sixteen
Imove the Harley under the tree beside the guesthouse to stay out of as much of the heat as I can and kill the engine, just sitting there for a second. My elbow throbs like hell. One of the mirrors hangs by a thread. There’s a smear of dried blood on the tank where my forearm dragged over it laying the bike down. I should be more pissed about the damage, but I’m not. I’m too busy thinking about the trucks and about the way they boxed me in like they’d done it before. And like they knew exactly where I’d be. Those are the parts that won’t leave me alone.
Swinging my leg over, I squat beside the bike. My ribs protest the movement, but I ignore them as I run my hand over the side panel, fingers grazing the scratches. I don’t have the tools to fix any of this. Not even a wrench. Hell, the bike’s not even a week old. I’ll have to figure out where the nearest shop is or if anyone in Dogwood Bluff knows how to work on something like this without fucking it up.
Crouching lower, I inspect the undercarriage. The rear axle looks fine, and nothing appears to be leaking. The chain is still tight. The right mirror’s a loss, but everything else survived, including me. My eyes drift to the place where the saddlebags would normally buckle to the frame. Something about it sticks inmy head and a memory comes to me. A couple days ago, outside the clinic, there was that guy with the sunglasses standing too close to the bike. Said he liked the ride. Smiled a little too long. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Just another local asshole with a truck full of attitude. But now?
Now I can’t stop thinking about it. After dropping to my knees, I start running my fingers along the seams. The shock mount. The swingarm. I check the frame under the seat, but there is nothing obvious. I move more slowly, more deliberately until my fingers graze something small. It’s smooth, not metal, and I can tell it’s not part of the bike. I freeze for a beat and then I reach for it. The thing is tucked a little behind the side panel, under the lip of the saddlebag mount. It’s no bigger than a thumb drive. I pop it free and hold it in my palm, and I don’t have to be an expert in surveillance to know what it is. A tracking device. Fuck.
Staring at it for a long second, my pulse climbs and my stomach tightens. They knew. They knew exactly where I’d be. It wasn’t a coincidence and not a lucky guess. They were following me all this time. Hunting me. And I was stupid enough to let them. But now what? Slipping the device into my jeans pocket, I pace once, twice. Then I stop, hands on hips, eyes scanning the trees, the fence line, and the road. Slowly, I turn to the guesthouse, eyes narrowing. What else? If they tagged my bike, what else have they touched?
I stalk around the building, eyes scanning the eaves, the corners, the gutters, and it takes me less than ten minutes to find the first one. A tiny pinhole camera tucked under the roofline. Small and professional. It’s wired into something I can’t see. Starting to search, within a few hours, I find another one near the back porch door. Then one on the other side, angled toward the guesthouse door. But that’s not the one that gets to me the most. There’s one on the front porch, under the rail, aimed at thelake. I follow its sightline and feel my stomach drop. The camera is pointed straight at the patch of grass where I fucked Kristin two nights ago. My blood goes cold, and I ball my fists, staring at the nearest lens. I don’t flip it off. I don’t smash it yet. I don’t let it see I know that it’s watching. “You sick fuck,” I mutter as I turn away.
Storming into the main house, I slam the door. Pacing the living room, my chest is tight. I want to throw something. I want to punch a hole in the wall. I want to go to Will Cleveland’s front lawn, drag him out by his perfectly pressed shirt, and beat him into the dirt, but that’s not the play. Not yet. I sit on the edge of the couch, elbows on my knees, breathing hard. My fingers twitch with adrenaline, and I try to slow my breathing. I try to think.
Not much later, the door opens. Kristin steps in, keys in one hand, bag slung over her shoulder. Her eyes go straight to me. She freezes. “What happened?” she asks, voice sharp. “Are you okay?”
I stand. “We have a problem.”
She drops her bag and crosses the room. “What kind of problem?”
Pulling it from my pocket, I hold up the tracking device and her face goes pale. “Found it on the bike,” I say. “Tucked under the saddlebag mount.” Her mouth opens, then closes.
She looks like she’s trying to catch up. “Is that…?”
“A tracking device. Not big. Not obvious. But enough to tell someone exactly where I was, which explains the trucks.” Kristin slowly shakes her head but says nothing so I continue. “And that’s not all. There are cameras.”
Kristin blinks. “What?”
“Outside. On the guesthouse. On this house. Hidden. Wired in. Watching the porch. The backyard. The goddamn grasswhere we—” I don’t finish. I don’t need to. Her eyes go wide, and her hand covers her mouth. I nod. “Yeah.”
Turning, she walks to the window and yanks the curtain aside. “Those weren’t there before.”
“Then someone added them. Recently I bet.”
She shakes her head. “I changed the locks. I made sure he couldn’t get in. I—”
“I believe you,” I say. “But it isn’t enough.”
Hands shaking, Kristin wraps her arms around her chest. “We should go to him,” she hisses. “Make him explain this.”
“No,” I say, sharply. “We don’t tip our hand. Not yet.”
Her eyes flash. “You want to let him watch us?”
“I want to make him think he still can.”
