Page 27 of Faron
And then my phone buzzed.
Once. Then again. Then again.
I didn’t move.
“You gonna get that?” she mumbled.
“Not if it ruins this.”
She lifted her head, eyes bleary but amused. “Answer it, Lightfoot. Or I swear I’ll drop it in the sink.”
I groaned, grabbed it, thumbed the screen.
Cyclone.
Shit.
“Lightfoot,” I answered, voice rough.
“We got a hit this morning. Name drop. Yours. Not street-level. Organized. Serious muscle. They don’t want you in the way.”
“Location?”
He didn’t even pause. “Blue’s clinic. Word is they’re circling. You need to move. Now. River and I are en route.”
The call cut off.
I sat up so fast I nearly dumped Blue onto the floor. She swore, scrambled up after me.
“What is it?”
I cupped her face. Brushed my thumb over the red mark on her neck — one of a dozen I’d left last night in love and claim and ruin.
“They’re coming for us. Not just Rico. This is bigger. They don’t want me near you. They want you scared and unprotected.”
She shoved my hand away, eyes hard.
“Then we fight, Cherokee. We don’t run.”
Bear barked once at the door — deep and certain.
Outside, an engine idled too long.
I grabbed my jeans, my sidearm, and her hand all in one breath.
“Stay behind me. And stay mean.”
Her grin was the only thing in this world sharper than my blade.
“Always.”
28
Faron
The street outside smelled like trouble dressed in cheap cologne.
Three men. Beat-up car. No plates. One smoking. One stretching like a bored pit bull. One with a bulge under his jacket that sure as hell wasn’t a candy bar.
