Page 82

I remember my script.
Hunter is only called for important people and as gross as this bar may be, this woman must be connected to someone who matters.
“Where’s your guy?” I ask her.
Her eyes drop to the floor. “He ran.”
“Who is he?” I ask about the body.
Her voice quivers as she explains. “I didn’t see the tattoo on his wrist until I tried searching him for ID. He’s part of the Blood Nation.”
While I don’t know all the intricacies of every group that Hunter has worked with, I know enough to understand that a dead Blood Nation member on a bar room floor is never a good thing.
I take a deep breath, the weight of the situation settling on my shoulders. “Alright,” I say, keeping my voice calm. “We’re going to handle this. You got it?” I ask Lars.
Lars nods, already with his phone out, texting whoever Hunter usually calls to handle scenarios like this. Meanwhile, I turn back to the woman. She’s on the verge of tears, her hands shaking as she wrings them together.
“You need to keep calm,” I tell her, my tone firm but reassuring. “No one can or will know about this. We’ll take care of the body, but you need to make sure no one in the bar talks, especially your guy on the run. It would be best if you found him. Understood?”
She nods quickly, swallowing hard. “I understand. I’ll make sure no one says anything.”
As Lars finishes making the call, I take one last look at the scene and wonder how young Hunter was when he first had to handle something like this. Was he my age? Was he even younger? It would explain so much.
“How much longer before the bar closes?” I ask her.
“Hours.”
“I suggest you go out there, announce last call, then go home and handle finding your person. That’s the priority.”
“Okay…I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
Lars gives me a side-eye warning.
“We don’t need to get into names,” I tell her. “Let’s get to work,” I say, my voice steady, even as the baby kicks again—a jab to the ribs that feels even stronger than the last time.
“Oww!” I bend at the waist.
“Are you okay?” the woman asks.
Before I assure her that I’m an incubator for a future soccer star, another intense kick takes my breath away.
“Hey?” Lars approaches, ending his text exchange and placing a hand on my shoulder.
Another kick happens, and the pain seems to travel around the side of my belly and up my spine.
“Fuckkkk!” I bellow.
“She might be in labor,” the woman says to Lars.
“No,” I interject firmly. “I have another month.”
The pain intensifies.
It doesn’t feel like just a kick anymore.
Just pain.
And that’s when it hits me.