Page 28 of Hunted: Season Two

The corner of his lips twitches a smirk. “That’d be the one.”

“And where is she?”

“Other side. Front row. Edge seat.”

My gaze gravitates to the shorthaired, toasted brown skin, full figure woman who is fanning her round face with an old-style folded fan and waving the other hand around in spiritual agreement.

It’s notthathot in here.

Then again, maybe she’s practicing her routine for the funeral that I’m told we have to attend becausenotattending would be suspicious.

And the last thing we want is everyone watching us.

Thinkingwewere somehow responsible for November’s untimely death.

Placing the blame where it doesn’t belong.

I argued – for hours – with Kipp, Nolan, and Garcia that itwasmy fault.

That because it’smy ex…my demon…that caused the prophecy spewer to retire early from living, I was secondhandedly responsible for his murder.

That I should bearsomeof the shame.

The guilt.

The burden.

None of them were willing to hear it.

No matter how hard I screamed.

And I fucking screamed until The Kid had to make me tea to soothe my throat.

It turns out he makes a mean cup of that shit too.

I honestly think if a life of cars didn’t work out for him, he could’ve made it as a chef.

Or…at the very least a fancy barista like you’d find at Contes De La Couronne Yacht Club back in Florida.

Despite the fact, the hairs on the back of my neck have yet to go down – indicating that it wasn’t the cheating hotel creeper making them stand up – I keep my visual hunting momentarily halted to inquire, “And who’s the redhead directly behind her?”

This time there’s noticeable hesitation to answer.

Hesitation I don’t like.

“Kid.”

He does his best to remain silent.

“Kid.”

Still nothing.

“Kipp.”

Against his own volition, he whispers, “Jolene.”

“Jolene?!” the loud hiss of her name causes him to shoot me a disapproving glare. “Like…the Jolene?!”

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