Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Once we’re there, I give the door a quick slap. “I’ll be right behind you. You good?”
With a slow, jerky smile, she nods. “Y-yeah. You’re a heck of a guy.”
Wrong.
I’m the whole reason she’s worried about mysterious wolves with sharp teeth chasing her out of the blue.
Still, I keep my mouth shut, flash her another easygoing grin, and climb in the driver’s seat.
She waits till I’m in my truck before getting back in Dean’s rig with Owl and pulling forward. Her trailer rumbles across the parking lot and then onto the highway.
I’m right behind her, and now that I’m no longer on the phone with her, I dial an old FBI contact who can drill deep. He’s got intense resources I don’t have in private security, even though he turned in his badge before I did.
Ever since we were classmates at Quantico, James Nobel left an impression I’ll never forget.
Always the smartest sounding dude in the room, platinum-blond hair like a prince, permanent stick up his ass with...well, everything.
I smile, knowing married life and years of working for Enguard Security out west has softened his assholery. Even so, I’m betting he’s still the sharpest tool in the box.
The call goes direct to his voicemail.
“James, it’s Faulkner. You got that stuff I sent over about Bart Pickett’s files being sealed a few days ago? I need an update, whenever you get a chance. Thanks.”
A sigh leaves me as I follow Tory into town.
I think I’ll always appreciate how the countryside just melts into Dallas like a Mayberry dream. Idyllic Midwestern fields give way to busy people on little streets, kids running along beside their parents with ice cream cones hanging in their hands.
It’s innocence itself, an oasis in a world full of lethal shitheels like the Pickett brothers and their corrosive drugs.
In the blink of an eye, I wonder what it’d be like to take Tory Three Names on a real date around here.
Not the kind where we wind up sharing burgers or giving into animal urges on a Ferris wheel we don’t talk about again.
More like the kind where it’s just us, easy conversation, and a lazy afternoon.
The kind where I’d have her hand in mine, and we’d browse the little shops, chit-chat with the locals, feed the ducks in the park, and then stop for a stolen kiss or two in the evening’s orange glow.
The kind where those greedy kisses wouldn’t stop with awkward second-guessing, but they’d lead us straight home, out of our clothes, into a frolicking flesh heap equal parts sugar and spice.
Yeah, fuck.
Silly as it sounds, I’d like that a lot.
I’d like to be with her, even if I know full well it’d only be temporary.
This morning, when I’d logged into the cloud she’d sent me with the Selleck stuff, I’d taken a few minutes to look at some of the other videos she had saved.
I’m normally not a snoop, but curiosity caught me by the balls.
Soon I was staring at Tory on the stage, dancing her heart out, graceful as a swan.
Everything Dean said was dead-on.
She’s one hell of a dancer.
Her style ain’t exactly the traditional ballet with tutus and old-timey shoes I pictured. It felt more like a blend of modern and traditional moves and music stitched together in harmony.
Energetic. Beautiful. Indescribably elegant.
I’m no artsty-fartsy guy, but I couldn’t pull my eyes away.
I’ve never seen anything like it.
Never watched a ballet before, but the videos of her dancing were pure perfection as she moved, whirling in tight form, making her body an instrument of the music, arms and legs like spinning silks in the air.
Not a single missed step or stumble.
Dean described it perfectly when he said it was like watching a butterfly take flight.
Damn right it was.
In fact, if I hadn’t already sent out feelers about that Jean-Paul De-asshole, I’m not sure I’d want anything to do with keeping her away from home after watching those videos. They spoke loud and clear.
Tory needs to return to Chicago and her dreams.
Whether she dances with his outfit or another, she belongs on the stage.
Those videos showed her talent, her soul, how she’s in her glory while she’s moving like an angel, bathed in soft music and basking in bright lights.
It feels like it barely takes a few minutes before we arrive at Granny’s house.
Tory climbs out of the truck with Owl hot on her heels.
“Home safe and sound,” she says, more flippant than she appears as we meet near the front of my truck. “You’re free to get back to better things, I’m sure.”
The worry lines on her face are proof I haven’t been the only one thinking hard about a lot of things the whole way here.
They’ll ease, I’m sure, but it makes my blood go molten to think about her scared. I’d heard it in her voice on the phone during the chase.