Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
“You didn’t.” It was obviously a lie, but she looked too tired to go another round with me right now.
I found her eyes in the rearview mirror, and they were glassy and dull. I wasn’t normally talkative. In fact, I preferred to ride in silence. But there was a clock subconsciously ticking in the back of my mind, counting down the hours until she’d leave my detail and transfer to another.
Gone, forever.
“Why ballet?”
My question hung so long, I wasn’t sure she was going to answer. But then she took in a preparing breath. “It’s what I’m supposed to do. I’d do it even if I wasn’t good at it.” Her curiosity overrode her anger, or perhaps she was just trying to be polite. “Why’d you become a marshal?”
“If I’d applied to the FBI academy, I’d probably be stuck working a desk.” It was all about the chase for me, and I liked the idea of being a modern-day cowboy.
Her expression was guarded. “And how would you get to break noses behind a desk?”
Fucking Caroline. She must have told her what I’d done to Nelson.
I kept my tone light. “Or protect ballerinas?”
“I’m not a ballerina. Ballerina is a title given to one woman in the company, after she’s been a principal for years. I’m a dancer.”
“When Bill told me that, I thought he meant—”
“Exotic. Yeah, it’s not the first time I’ve heard that. I’m sure they make more than I do, but the hours aren’t great.”
It struck me how different we were, but like two sides of the same coin. Both in her professional and personal life, it was obvious how much people’s opinions mattered to her, whereas I couldn’t care less.
Except, was that true? Her opinion of me mattered, but I refused to analyze why.
When we stopped for fuel, Laurel asked to use the restroom and I escorted her inside. I stood guard, lingering near the hallway that led to restrooms and pretended to have difficulty selecting the perfect type of jerky.
At the beverage fountain nearby, a frazzled young mother tried to dispense two drinks while simultaneously wrangling her five-year-old.
“Brady, put that back!” she scolded.
The kid had grabbed a giant candy bar off the rack and swung it like a baseball bat. I admired both the kid’s dedication to form and the way he completely ignored his mother. Ballsy.
An older man wearing a baseball hat stood behind them, holding a gallon-sized mug, and his posture screamed impatience. Perhaps he was a trucker, anxious to stay on schedule.
“You about done?” It wasn’t really a question. This was his way of letting the woman know other people were in line.
“Yes, sorry.” She set the cups on the counter and reached for the lids, making room for the man.
“What’d you get me?” the kid asked, still swinging for the fences when Laurel emerged from the bathroom.
His mother struggled to make the lid fit. “I got you Sprite, because you—”
The boy was too young to have spatial awareness, but he got a lesson in cause and effect when his candy bar connected with the cup. It sent the entire contents flying in an explosion of soda and ice. It showered the trucker from head to toe, and for a moment the only audible noise was the gasp in horror from the mother.
Outrage flooded the man’s face before he leaned down and hooked the boy under the arm, squeezing. “Look what you just did!”
The boy’s eyes went as wide as saucers and he burst into tears, maybe from the fear, but maybe from pain.
“Get your hands off him.” My voice was so loud, it made the man jolt and everything around us stop.
The trucker’s focus turned to me. One glance to size me up, and he dropped his hold of the boy. The candy bar fell to the ground, and the boy darted to hide behind his mother’s legs, who looked paralyzed with fear.
“I got soaked!” the man said, as if that justified his actions.
“Yes, but it was an accident.” I pulled another cup from the dispenser, dumped some ice in it, and began to fill it with Sprite. “The kid made a mistake. We all do sometimes.”
I snapped the lid on the drink and passed it to the mother, who probably only took it from me as a practiced response. She was on high alert. The trucker was the biggest threat, but she was unsure of me as well.
“You made a mistake,” I said, “when you grabbed him. I’m sure the kid is sorry, just like I’m sure you’re sorry. Right?”
I’d perfected the “you don’t want to fuck with me” look over the years and delivered it now. If that wasn’t enough to get the message across, I’d put one hand on my hip to give the guy a nice view of the gun and badge there, currently disguised under my suit jacket.