by Shandi Boyes
I’m disturbed from my thoughts when a shimmer of white secures my attention as I head back to my truck. Speaking of old habits... no matter how many times I tried to sell my truck the past decade, I never accepted a single offer. A collector of classic cars even offered me twenty thousand dollars above the asking price, yet I still couldn’t let her go.
It is not just the memories I have of Savannah in this truck that cemented her place in my life, it is the ones I have with my brothers. The years before things soured, Chris put more hours into her motor than I did. She belongs to him as much as she does me, so it isn’t right for me to sell her.
After placing my empty beer bottles in the passenger seat of my truck, I snag the slip of paper tucked under the windshield wipers. “Abby Rowe,” I mutter to myself, reading the name printed above a Florida state cell phone number.
I scan my truck’s pristine paintwork, seeking any damage. Other than the graze down the left-hand side I’ve never gotten around to buffing out, there doesn’t appear to be any damage, so why was I left contact details?
Shrugging off the note as a woman too shy to approach me, I slide into the driver’s seat and crank the ignition. She fires over with one turn. I don’t know what Savannah did when she worked on my motor all those years ago, but she hasn’t missed a beat since that day.
I find myself traveling the same route home as I have numerous times the past month. It isn’t the direct route, but the one that meanders by the Mercedes owner’s address. Even knowing Savannah doesn’t live there hasn’t stopped my curiosity. There's a connection I'm missing—I just know it.
As my truck glides down the pristine tree-lined estate, portions of Savannah’s disclosure plays through my mind like a movie. “They wouldn’t let me go. I begged them to let me attend the church service, but they said it wasn’t safe.”
She said “them,” not “him.” Does that mean she didn’t miss Chris’s funeral because the old geezer she was shacked up with wouldn’t let her go? She wanted to come, she just couldn’t? But who would stop her from attending? And why would they think it wasn’t safe?
I yank my truck off the side of the road when a disturbing thought smacks into me. No... she wouldn’t have.
I dial Regina’s number on repeat. She retired over a year ago, but she's still the first person I call when seeking legal advice.
When she fails to answer my call for the fourth time, I dial the second person on my list. It isn’t who you’d expect.
“Izzy, do you have any contacts in the FBI?” I ask, not bothering to issue a greeting.
Izzy, my partner, giggles. “Hi, Ryan, nice to hear from you too.”
I’m not surprised when her greeting is followed by a low growl. Isaac says he has no issues with me and Izzy working together, but he’s full of shit. He has jealousy issues a mile long when it comes to Izzy. I can’t say I blame him. There's no way I’d let my girl work with a guy she kissed directly in front of me. He’d be locked up in a four by four cell, not her superior.
“Why do you need the FBI? I thought you hated them ‘pissing on your turf.’”
Isaac’s growl turns into a chuckle.
“Seriously, Izzy? You have me on speaker phone? What if I was planning to whisper all those naughty thoughts into your ear like I did last week? We discussed this. Isaac can never know about us.”
Isaac’s laughter is nonexistent. “I swear to god, Ryan. I will ki...”
His words are drowned out by Izzy switching off the speaker. “Ryan! I can’t believe you did that.” She sounds breathless, as if she's running. “You have no idea of the dangerous situation you’ve put me in. Now I have to calm the beast.”
I’d be worried about her if she didn’t sound so excited. I don’t know why Isaac has trust issues with Izzy; she’s as smitten by him as they come.
“You’ve got five minutes before Isaac breaks down the bathroom door—get talking,” Izzy warns.
She isn’t joking. I can hear Isaac coercing her out of the bathroom. His tactics are not ones I’d use during a hostage situation. They make my stomach twist and my dick shrink.
“Remember that girl I told you about on your first day at Ravenshoe PD...?”
“Savannah,” Izzy fills in, impressing me with her memory.
I bite on my lip to hold my grin. “Yeah. She’s back in town.”
“Ah... so that’s the house we’ve been ‘monitoring’ the past month.” I can hear her smile in her words.
My eyes roll skywards. “Yeah, anyway, she said something today that didn’t make any sense... until you popped into my mind.”
“Thinking about me on your days off? Maybe I should tell Isaac about the stories you’ve shared the past six months.” She laughs, having no idea my days are being numbered for every second I steal her away from Isaac.
“I wasn’t really thinking about you, more your situation.”
Izzy sighs, faking disappointment.
I shake my head. No wonder why I was attracted to her. Her personality reminds me so much of Savannah.
“Do you still have access to the FBI database?” I ask, attempting to steer our conversation back on track.
This time, Izzy’s sighs for real.
“Alex never saw me as a member of his team when I was an agent. There's no way I’d still have access to their servers,” she replies, sounding annoyed. “Why? Do you think Savannah’s disappearance has something to do with the FBI?”
Even though she can’t see me, I shrug. “Probably not. I just don’t want to leave any stone unturned.”
She hums before suggesting, “You could call Alex and ask him?”
Now it’s my turn to sigh.
“You worked together on Isaac’s case. That means he sees you more as a friend than a foe.” Her last two words are barely heard over the splintering of wood. “Isaac...”
“Goodbye, Ryan.” Isaac disconnects my call, his farewell fast but not fast enough for me to miss the warning in his tone. I’ll pay for my tease. Maybe not this week. Maybe not next month. But it is coming.
I stare at my cell for several minutes, contemplating my next move. I’ve got nothing to lose reaching out to Alex, so why am I hesitating?
Because you don’t want to face the truth. Savannah isn’t hiding a secret from you, Ryan—she was just hiding from you.
Ignoring my inner monologue, I dial the number for the local FBI field office. The operator directs my call to Alex’s private cell not even two seconds later.
“Alex Rogers,” a deep, gruff voice greets.
“Hey, Alex, it’s Ryan. Ryan Carter.” I’m tempted to add on my credentials, but when Alex grunts, acknowledging he understands who I am, I don’t bother.
“What can I do for you, Ryan-Ryan Carter?”
The mock in his tone shocks me. Alex has never been a jokey type of guy. I can’t recall seeing him smile once when we worked together on Isabelle’s kidnapping and attempted murder charges. I’m fairly certain only one thing will cause a smile to creep across his face: the arrest of Isaac Holt. Hate is a strong word, but I’m reasonably sure it is the right word to describe Alex’s dislike of Isaac.
“I was hoping to get your help on a potential espionage case.” It might be a stretch, but if I don’t make my investigation sound interesting, Alex won’t give me any leeway.
“Espionage?” You can hear eagerness in his voice.
“Yeah. I’ve only got a name, but if I get any more, I’ll extend a branch to your team.”
“What’s the name?” Alex asks with curiosity in his tone.
I swallow the brick in my throat before replying, “Savannah Fontane.”
Fingers tapping on a keyboard sound down the line before Alex grunts. “Nah. I’ve got nothing.”
He’s lying. A man as controlled—and, quite frankly, anal—as Alex doesn’t use words like “Nah.” He would also never admit to having nothing, even when he has sweet fuck all.
“You’ve got nothing?” I double-check, my tone
advising I didn’t miss his lie.
“Nope. Nothing.”
I clench my jaw. I don’t need to see him to know he's lying. I can hear it in his tone.
“Is there anything else I can help you with, Ryan-Ryan Carter?” he asks a short time later.
You not being such a wanker would be great.
Instead of saying what I really want to say, I reply, “What about any information on an Abby Rowe? Do you have anything you can share about her?”
I don’t know what inspired me to ask. It could just be a coincidence that Abby’s name was placed under my wipers on the same day I ran into Savannah again, but I’ve never been a fan of flukes. It may not be full of roses, but only you influence your destiny. That way you can’t blame the outcome on anyone but yourself.
“Abby Rowe,” Alex babbles, drawing my focus back to him.
My heart beats in an unnatural rhythm when he asks, “What do you want to know?”
Chapter 14
Savannah
"You parked on the roadside again?" Jet chuckles to hide his suspicion.
I nod, preferring to lie without words.
“Do you want a ride to your car?” Hope echoes in his tone. He has offered me a lift every night the past week. I always deny his request.
"I need to stretch out my muscles or they'll seize up." Because I'm not lying, it comes out sounding as it should—honest.
Jet sighs heavily. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow?” Every night without fail his farewell is a question. I just don’t know if he's questioning his dedication or my own.
“I’ll be here,” I reply, holding back the remainder of my reply. Will you?
Like he heard my unasked question, Jet replies, “I’ll see you then.”
After a hesitant wave, he guides his sedan out of the empty parking lot. I grimace when my eyes drop to my watch. It is a little past 4 AM. My nights are getting later and later the past two weeks.
Since I don’t want anyone to know I’m without transportation, I make sure I’m the last to leave each night. Pete sees it as dedication. Jet isn’t as convinced. Thankfully, with my performance at Maison’s scheduled for the end of next week, my walking days are numbered. Eight more nights—the countdown is on.
A short time later, tires rolling over gravel booms into my ears. I move to the far edge of the asphalt, protecting both myself and the driver. Rarely do any cars pass me at this time of night, but when they do, they’re more startled by my presence than I am by theirs. I should probably get out in the sun a little more often, then my bright white legs wouldn’t be so glaring.
My heart rate breaks into a canter when the vehicle fails to pass in a reasonable amount of time. They slowly creep behind me, scaring me more than the prospect of an alligator having a late night swim.
Snubbing the bile burning the back of my throat, I quicken my pace. I’m at least half a mile from the nearest residence, so screaming won’t help, no matter how badly I wish it would. It doesn’t matter how many steps I take, the distance between me and the vehicle tailing me remains the same.
When my brisk strides break into a jog, the moisture gleaming in my eyes nearly topples down my cheeks. I tell myself on repeat that I am safe and unknown, and no one will harm me, but my panic doesn't weaken in the slightest. I got too comfortable. Even if I believed I wasn't being followed, I should have changed my route more regularly.
God—how could I have been so stupid?
I’m practically panting, crying, and out of breath when the reason I’m being tailed is unearthed. A set of red, blue and white flashing lights illuminates the nearly pitch-black sky, stopping both my sprint and my heart. You’d think I’d be relieved a member of law enforcement is following me. I’m not. I don’t trust anyone, much less those who think they have the power.
Besides, why are they following me? There's no law against walking on the roadside. If there isn’t a sidewalk available, pedestrians are within their legal rights to use the edge of the road.
Believe me, I checked.
I secure my first full breath in nearly five minutes when a gritty voice streams through the passenger window of a dark blue sedan. “Car troubles?”
After clearing any evidence of panic from my eyes, I crank my neck to the voice a million years couldn’t erase from my mind. Ryan.
“Yeah, something like that,” I breathe out heavily. Not having a car is technically a car problem. Isn’t it?
“Get in. I’ll give you a ride home,” Ryan offers, his speed as slow as my steps.
I smile, hoping it will soften my rejection before replying, “No, it’s okay. I need the exercise.”
My feet are killing, but with my ego still nursing bruises from our exchange at Chris’s gravesite last week, I’m not eager to amass more damage.
“You’re a mile out of town. Three from your apartment. No one needs that much exercise,” Ryan interjects.
I feign shock at his admission. It’s not my best acting job. I knew the instant I ran into Brax in the foyer of our building three weeks ago that my cover was blown. I was just grateful it occurred there and not at work.
“Savannah...” Ryan grumbles, sounding annoyed at my lack of response.
I stop walking so I can take in some deep breaths. I'm not tired; I'm panicked. This could create an attachment I can't afford to make. This isn't just about me anymore. I'm not only risking my heart. I'm risking hers as well.
Sensing my hesitation, Ryan pulls over then clambers out of the driver seat. He doesn’t approach me or utter a syllable. He just lets his eyes speak on his behalf. You can trust me, Savannah.
I wish I could believe him. I'd give anything to pretend he never deceived me as he did. But ignoring one lie only opens the door for more. I let Ryan betray me once; I won't fall for the same trick twice.
“Thank you for the offer, but I’m fine walking.”
Ryan's lips tug as he struggles to hold in his sneer. "Alright. Have it your way." He curls back into his driver's seat before mumbling, "I'll just follow you the next three miles...with my lights on...maybe even my siren."
I swallow the brick suddenly lodged in my throat. He’s joking, right? He wouldn't follow me through town like I'm a criminal. Not only would that be highly embarrassing, but it would also gain me attention—attention I don't want or need.
“Fine,” I snarl, spotting the determination in his eyes. I mumble incoherently under my breath while sliding into his passenger seat and fastening my seat belt. “I can’t pay you anything.”
My eyes dart to Ryan when he says, “Good. I wouldn’t have any place to put crumpled-up bills, anyway.” He keeps his eyes facing the road, acting like he didn't say what he just did. It is a pity the tick in his jaw undoes his Oscar-worthy performance.
“I’m not a ...I don’t remove my clothes,” I mumble, incapable of saying the word “stripper.”
Ryan’s teeth graze his bottom lip before he swings his eyes to me. “I know.”
His blasé response knocks the wind from my lungs. He isn’t confirming my admission because he believes me. He’s stating a fact. He’s seen me perform?
“How many times?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
When his eyes return to the road, I twist my torso to face him head-on. “How many times, Ryan?” Before he can answer me, the truth smacks into me. “You’re the man in the suit the girls have been raving about all week.”
I don’t know why I sound peeved. Ryan isn’t mine, so my colleagues have every right to get giddy in his presence. I just preferred not knowing who they were gushing over. It didn’t sting as much when I assumed it was a stranger.
Feigning disinterest, I stammer, “You’re a fool for knocking back Melena’s offer. Her lap dances start at two hundred dollars. I heard she offered you the full package for free.”
When Ryan smirks, my back molars smack together. I return my slit eyes to the scenery whizzing by my window. I couldn't sound more jealous if I tried. Although shocked by the e
xcited rumblings through the dressing stations the past week, I didn't give two hoots who the gentleman in the suit was. Vipers attracts a range of men, so I just brushed it off as one of the many new clients amassed the past two months. I had no clue it was the man who hasn’t left my thoughts for a second the past decade.
While peering at Ryan’s reflection in the window, another truth smacks into me. “Oh my god! That was you!” I rummage through the stash of notes in my purse like a madwoman, seeking the rare hundred dollar bills I’ve gained five times this week already.
“I knew Jet was full of shit. My tips didn’t drastically increase because of my new routine. You sweetened the pot.”
Ryan doesn’t deny my claims. He doesn’t do anything. That fuels my agitation even more.
I was blown away Monday night when my tips jumped from the low two hundreds to mid three hundreds. I had been mixing up my routine to keep things fresh for the regulars, but I was still anticipating a dip in tips, not an increase. Now it makes sense.
“I’m glad you enjoyed my performance, but I'm not a charity case,” I snarl, throwing three one hundred bills to Ryan’s side of the cab.
I’m reasonably sure I owe him another two hundred dollars but considering my comment about not being able to pay him for the ride wasn't a lie, the remaining bills must wait until a later date.
The money I was once ecstatic to earn floats through the air like feathers on a warm summer night. When they come to rest on Ryan's splayed thighs, he doesn't gather them in his hands or acknowledge their presence. That pisses me off more than anything.
“You have nothing to say? Nothing at all?”
He scrubs his hand over the stubble on his chin, praying it will hide its manic tick.
It doesn’t.
“Say what you want, Ryan. I’m a big girl. I can take it.”
I clench my stomach, expecting his words to hit me square in the guts. I should have prepared an organ a few inches higher, as my heart is the only one sustaining a brutal blow when Ryan snarls, “What would your dad say, Savannah? You work at a... Club. You’re a...” He's as incapable of saying “stripper” as I am.