Page 32 of Hunted: Season Two

To join him.

I let my dark gaze meet hers, silently pleading for some help on what to say, what not to say, fuck, what not todo, yet she provides me with nothing.

Simply tips her chin in his direction.

Which isn’t fucking helpful.

I know where he isphysically.

It’s trying to find where the fuck he’s atmentallythat’s the problem.

Leaving her behind, leaning against the side of my truck near the emergency gas cans, I cautiously cross over to the spacehe’s occupying, internally wracking my brain for the best choice of words possible for this situation.

We weren’t exactly allotted ample opportunity to talk down at the station so much aslisten, because our attorney insisted, we say nothing for legal reasons. Apparently, the investigation against me, the self-defense query against Kipp, and Rabbit’s stalker issue are all neon flashing arrows that state this shit’s related to one if not all of those things, complicating our already complicated legal situations.

Post handled talking to us with his hands metaphorically cuffed the best he could.

Tried to be understanding.

Sympathetic.

Unfortunately, his attempt at compassion ended with a needlessly cryptic line about not letting our new cowgirl stomp her muddy boots throughhistown.

Something that wasalsonot fucking helpful.

Rabbit doesn’t need any more encouragement to haul ass away from us.

And I don’t need to add punching out a sheriff to the possible criminal charges Garcia is planning to get dismissed if or when necessary.

The minute I’m within range, I awkwardly inquire, “How’s that engine, Kid?”

He angles his face slightly over his shoulder, showing me the few tears that are stained on it and doesn’t say a word.

He simply shrugs.

Lifelessly.

Shrugs.

There’s no sniffle.

No grunt.

Not even a heavy sigh of defeat.

Chest aches of unmatched proportions send me falling to my knees beside him, something I’m sure they’ll gripe about in a couple hours. “Talk to me, Kipp.”

His attention drops back to the space between his bent legs where he’s drawing something in the dirt. Rather than respond, he resumes tracing the strange, almost boot-like pattern, again and again and again, as if each lap is providing him with some sort of relief that I can’t.

That I don’t know how to.

Fuck. Me.

How is it before we were fucking, I felt I knew exactly how to handle shit with him but now that we are, I’m completely lost?

I rearrange my frame to sit more comfortably beside him, steal a reassuring glance that Rabbit’s still safe – something she acknowledges by waving a hand at me to turn around – and then do my best to focus on the drawing being captured in the late-night moonlight.

At first, I’m convinced the picture is just aimless doodling, yet the longer I stare, the more visible the subtle movements of his hand become, ultimately revealing the creation’s identity. “That’s a track.” Leaning my back against the tree, I study his slick finger work further along the stick, noticing it’s less traditional changes. “And you’re shifting gears.”

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