Page 16 of Texas (Route 69 #1)

Sixteen

I move 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 in my 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 the lake.

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 grass where 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.”

She takes a step toward me. “You want to play games with a man like that?”

“I want to catch him in one.”

Her mouth is tight. Her shoulders tense and she looks like she’s about to scream or cry or both. “You don’t have to stay for this.”

I reach for her, grab her hips, pull her in. “I’m not leaving,” I say. “And I’m not letting him scare you.”

Staring at me, her eyes are burning. “I want to hurt him,” she says, and I nod.

“Good,” I say. “Use it.”

She grabs my shirt, fisting the fabric. “I’m so fucking tired of this. Of being his.”

“Then don’t be.” I push her back against the wall, hard, and she gasps.

I kiss her with heat and fury. She kisses me back like she’s starving.

Her hands are in my hair, on my shoulders, yanking me closer.

I shove her blouse up, then her bra, exposing her breasts so I can suck a nipple into my mouth.

She moans, loud and raw, her head hitting the wall with a soft thud.

Her hands fumble with the button of her slacks.

I help her, pull her pants open, and shove her underwear aside.

I slide two fingers into her, and she is hot and ready.

She gasps, bites my shoulder. I fuck her against the wall, hard and fast. No finesse.

Only need. She claws at my back, her breath in my ear. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t.”

Suddenly, she comes with a cry, her whole body shaking.

I don’t stop. I chase my own release, grinding against her thigh, my fingers still inside her.

I come hard, my body jerking, my breath catching in my throat.

We collapse together, panting, sweaty, still pressed against the wall.

Her arms are around my neck, and my forehead is on her shoulder. “I hate him,” she whispers.

“So do I,” I say.

She pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes. “What now?”

I kiss her again. Slower this time. “We will figure something out.” I don’t say it out loud, but I know it in my bones. Will Cleveland just made a mistake, and I’m going to make him regret it.

Later, after dinner, and not much conversation, Kristin curled up beside me, her leg hooked over mine, breath warm against my shoulder.

We’ve been lying in her bed like this for an hour, maybe more.

The ceiling fan clicks with every slow revolution, but neither of us is asleep. I hear her sigh. “You awake?” I murmur.

She hums. “Yeah,” she answers. “I can’t stop thinking about everything.”

I understand. My mind won’t stop churning either, but I know we can’t just stew in it all night. That won’t help anything. “You want a drink?” I ask.

There’s a long pause. Then, “Only if we have it in the tub.”

That makes me turn my head. “The tub?”

Kristin lifts her chin, eyes catching the faint moonlight through the window. “The big one with the jets and the candles and the overpriced bath oil I never use.”

I smile slowly. “That a request or an order?”

She shrugs, but the corner of her mouth lifts. “You offering bourbon in bubbles or not, soldier?”

In answer, I kiss her temple and start to get out of bed. “Get the water started. I’ll get the drinks.”

“Alcohol cabinet is in the living room under the television,” she calls to my back.

Five minutes later, when I return with two bourbons on ice, the bathroom is full of steam and soft light.

She has lit three candles and turned on some low, instrumental something.

The tub’s filling with water and lavender bubbles, the scent curling into the air.

I hand her a glass of bourbon, and she takes it with a grateful sigh before sipping. “What an excellent idea.”

“I know.”

We undress without hurry. Not like foreplay, but slow like we’re unwrapping something fragile.

She peels off her tank top. I slide my underwear down my thighs.

Her eyes move over me, not hungry this time, only appreciative.

I help her step into the tub, then follow, easing into the heat with a groan and only a slight sting at my elbow.

The water climbs to our chests, and I settle behind her, legs on either side of her hips, her back against my chest. She exhales, head tipping back against my shoulder.

“This is nice,” she murmurs.

“Yeah,” I say, nuzzling her hair. “It is.”

We sit like that for a while. Bourbon warming our blood.

Water smoothing our skin. Her hand finds my thigh under the bubbles and just rests there.

Not moving. Not sexual. It’s only touching.

“Do you think it will always be like this?” she asks quietly.

“Men like him. Watching. Waiting. Taking what they want.”

I think about it. About the cameras and the tracking device and the way Will Cleveland is trying to own her without lifting a finger. Then I think about the fire in her eyes tonight. Her passionate anger. “No, I don’t,” I say. “I think women like you are what’s changing it.”

Kristin’s quiet for a moment, then she says, “I want to keep going to the clinic. I don’t want to hide.”

“Then we won’t.”

“You don’t think that’s stupid?” she says, her voice smaller now.

“I think it’s dangerous,” I say. “But so is letting him win.”

She turns her head to look at me. “And you? What are you going to do?”

I kiss her cheek. “Business as usual.” She studies me for a moment like she knows I’m lying, but she doesn’t call me on it.

She simply leans back again, her body softening against mine.

I reach for the soap, lather it in my hands, and slide my palms across her shoulders, massaging them slowly.

She sighs. I wash her back, her arms, and the curve of her waist. She lets me.

Her head tilts forward and I kiss the back of her neck. We don’t speak for a long time.

When the water starts to cool, we climb out and towel off, still quiet.

She slips on a nightgown. I put on my T-shirt and briefs, and we climb into bed, limbs tangled, her head on my chest. Kristin’s asleep within minutes.

I lie there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

My mind won’t shut off. I keep seeing the trucks and the cameras.

I keep hearing her voice. “You don’t have to stay for this. ” But I do.

Carefully, I slide from under her, grab my phone off the nightstand, and pad barefoot into the kitchen. The screen lights up my face in the dark. I find Matt’s name and type a quick message. “Tell Rach I’m sorry if this wakes you. I know it’s late, but I need your help.”

A message comes back less than a minute later. “You didn’t wake me. I don’t sleep much either. What do you need?”

“Intel on a guy named Will Cleveland. Real estate, old money, small-town Texas. He’s got surveillance on a woman I’m with. Cameras. GPS trackers. Tried to run me off the road. Can you dig?”

Three dots to pop up immediately. “Jesus. You okay?”

I think about what all to tell him, then keep it simple. “Took a hit. Still standing.”

Matt texts right back. “You always are. I’ll see what I can find. You want a paper trail or dirt?”

“Both.”

This time there’s a pause before he writes again. “Anything I should know about the woman?”

Again, I don’t know how honest to be. “She’s the reason I’m not already gone.”

“That serious?” he shoots back.

I pause. My thumb hovers over the screen and then I type the truth. “She’s worth protecting.”

“Then I’m in. Give me a day. Maybe two. Be careful, Holliday.”

“Always.” I set the phone down and stare out the window for a moment. The lake’s still and the sky’s dark. Somewhere out there, Will thinks he’s still in control. Let him. For now.

I crawl back into bed. Kristin shifts in her sleep, curling into me and I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her close, and shut my eyes.

Tomorrow, I’ll go into town. Ask Hank who around here drives black trucks with bad intentions.

Ask Donna what it takes to burn a man like Will from the inside out.

But tonight? Tonight, I hold Kristin while she sleeps and hope that’s enough.