Page 9 of The Cauldronball Run (Outlaw Country #2)

J .J.

New Jersey and Pennsylvania

J.J. had been driving for hours, hyperaware of every breath Farrah took in the seat beside him.

The moment he'd smelled her magic—sharp and wild as storm ozone—his instincts had whispered mine .

He shoved the thought down. No human witch wanted an orc EMT weighed down with debt.

But when her gaze had locked with his across the diner, wide and curious, something had pulled taut inside him.

She could be his. But why would she want to be?

The Cauldronball Run's private and secure CB radio channel broke into his thoughts with an urgent update.

"Breaker breaker, this is Flame Rider to all teams. We got smokeys at the next truck stop, repeat, we got more cops than a donut convention at the Buttercup Travel Plaza."

J.J. reached for the radio, but Farrah was faster, her hand brushing his as she grabbed it. The brief contact sent heat shooting up his arm, and he had to concentrate on not swerving into the guardrail.

Focus on the road, not on how her fingers felt against yours.

"Copy that, Flame Rider. Green Machine acknowledging. We'll take the detour through Millfield," she said.

She clicked off and looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Smokeys?"

"Police. And Flame Rider would be Torch, one of the dragon bikers." J.J. took the next exit, trying not to notice how Farrah leaned forward to check the road signs, bringing her close enough that he could smell her shampoo.

"How do you know all their call signs?" Farrah was studying a road map on her phone, completely oblivious to the way the afternoon sunlight was highlighting the curve of her neck.

Stop staring at her neck like a teenage boy. You're supposed to be racing, not having impure thoughts about your partner.

"A few of them. Some are more obvious than the others.”

The radio crackled again, this time with a voice that sounded like it was trying way too hard to be sophisticated.

"All teams, this is Secret Agent. I have obtained classified intelligence that local law enforcement is coordinating with state police through encrypted channels.

Suggest we maintain low profiles and avoid main arteries. "

"Intelligence," Farrah snorted, and the sound made J.J. grin. "That has to be the vampire?"

"Bondo. He genuinely believes he's working for some international spy agency, probably MI6 or the CIA or maybe both simultaneously." J.J. shook his head. "Nice guy, but completely delusional.”

“How does he drive during the day?”

“His Astin Martin is sunproofed.”

“Smart.”

They drove through Millfield's main street, past a diner that advertised "World's Best Pie" in hand-painted letters and a gas station with prices that made J.J.

's wallet weep in sympathy. Normal small-town America, where the biggest excitement was probably the annual corn festival and everyone knew everyone else's business.

"It's weird," Farrah said, settling back in her seat in a way that made her shoulder brush against his arm.

"For all their supernatural abilities and criminal activity, they're just like you and me.

The demons probably need money for something mundane like rent, the pixies want to prove their tech works better than Apple's, and the vampire thinks he's saving the world one failed seduction at a time. "

J.J. glanced at her, struck by the observation. "You sound surprised."

"I guess I expected criminals to be more... I don't know, criminal? Menacing? Less like a supernatural support group with transportation issues."

"We're not exactly the Mafia, sweetheart.

Just folks who decided to make some quick cash doing something we're good at.

" The endearment slipped out before he could stop it, and he felt heat creep up his neck.

"Though I gotta admit, the trolls are in it purely for the joy of driving really fast and crashing into things. "

As if summoned by his words, the enormous monster truck roared past them in the left lane, horn blaring a tune that sounded suspiciously like "Sweet Caroline." Through the massive windows, J.J. could see two trolls waving enthusiastically and singing along at the top of their considerable lungs.

"Bah! Bah! Bah!" drifted through their closed windows.

"They seem happy," Farrah observed, watching the monster truck weave between lanes while leaving a trail of confetti.

"They're always happy. It's genetically impossible for trolls to be depressed. Something about their brain chemistry." J.J. watched them disappear around a curve, still blaring Neil Diamond.

The radio crackled with increasingly chaotic chatter as teams reported their positions, mechanical failures, and various mishaps.

J.J. relaxed into the rhythm of long-distance driving.

The mile markers counted down. The CB banter ranged from helpful to completely insane, and the steady hum of the engine he'd built with his own hands filled him with pride.

What was new, what was the feeling he had between contentment and arousal, having Farrah next to him.

"Can I ask you something?" Farrah said.

"Shoot."

"Were you ever going to tell me the truth, if I hadn’t figured it out?"

J.J. considered lying, then decided he'd done enough of that already.

The woman had agreed to become a criminal with him; she deserved honesty.

"I was hoping I wouldn't have to. I figured maybe you'd go along with whatever story I told you, collect your paycheck, and never ask questions that would force me to admit I was desperate enough to recruit someone for illegal activity through Craigslist."

"Are you sorry I made you tell me?"

J.J. shifted in his seat, hyperaware of how close she was in the confined space, how her knee was almost touching his thigh. "No. I need a real partner, not just someone to babysit a mannequin and pretend everything was legitimate."

"A real partner for what?"

Before J.J. could answer—and he was still trying to figure out whether he meant "criminal activity" or "everything"—red and blue lights flashed in his rearview mirror like Christmas decorations from hell.

His stomach dropped. "Shit. Real police."

Farrah twisted to look back, her hair brushing against his shoulder and sending his concentration into complete meltdown. "How fast were we going?"

"Eighty-five in a sixty-five zone." J.J. started to pull over, then had a thought that was either brilliant or completely insane. "I should have had the sirens on."

"Too late now,” she said. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to pull over and we’re about to see how good our cover story is."

The state trooper who approached their window looked like he'd been sent by central casting. Square jaw, mirrored sunglasses, and the kind of by-the-book attitude that made J.J. wonder if the pole up his ass was part of the uniform.

"License and registration," the trooper said in a voice that suggested he'd never told a joke in his life. "You folks in a hurry?"

"Medical transport," J.J. said, handing over his credentials and praying the cop wasn’t speciesist against orcs. "We've got a patient with time-sensitive needs."

The trooper examined J.J.'s EMT license and the ambulance registration with the thoroughness of someone looking for any excuse to make arrests. "What kind of patient requires this speed?"

"Banshee with vocal cord trauma," Farrah said, leaning across the center console.

Her hand brushed J.J.'s arm as she reached for the medical charts, and the contact sent electricity shooting through him at exactly the wrong moment.

He had to concentrate on not shivering, not reacting, not doing anything that would give away how much her touch affected him.

"She requires ground transport to a specialist facility in Los Angeles.

Altitude changes could cause permanent vocal cord damage or worse. "

Do not think about how her fingers feel against your skin. Do not think about how she smells like lavender and stubbornness. Think about not getting a ticket.

J.J. caught the faintest shimmer around Farrah's fingers as she handed over the paperwork—so subtle he might have imagined it if he hadn't known she was a witch.

The trooper's skeptical expression softened slightly as he took the charts, his suspicious squint relaxing.

"Mind if I take a look at this patient?"

J.J.'s heart hammered so hard he was surprised it wasn't audible in the next county. "Patient confidentiality requires—"

"It's fine," Farrah interrupted, and J.J.

wanted to kiss her for her quick thinking and strangle her for the risk she was taking.

She got out of the ambulance and walked to the back doors with the confident stride of someone who definitely wasn't perpetrating fraud.

"Just keep your voice down. Loud noises can trigger seizures, and if she wails, the vocal cord damage could rupture.

The sound could be dangerous for all of us. "

J As she spoke, J.J. caught another flicker of magic—nothing flashy, just a gentle push that made the trooper step back instinctively, his hand moving to his weapon not in aggression but in cautious self-preservation.

J.J. almost swore as the trooper blanched and actually put his hand on his weapon. Farrah had just implied that their fake patient was a potential sonic weapon, and between her words and whatever subtle influence she was weaving, the cop was buying it completely.

She was a genius. A beautiful, sexy witch who was saving their asses with the lightest touch of magic he'd ever seen.

Opening the back doors with theatrical caution, she revealed their "patient"—the mannequin positioned on the stretcher, covered with blankets that hid its plastic features. The fake medical monitors beeped in a rhythm that sounded almost convincing.