Page 8 of Running Feral

“If he’d died, the world would have been short one more redneck.” He sneers as he says it, like he’s not from the exact same place as Silas. “The cops wouldn’t have done anythingabout it. They never do. And I think that whole situation worked out pretty well; I may not have gotten a protection contract out of it, but I did get myself a pet paramedic. Ford’s smarmy butt-buddy being indebted to us has already paid off more than I expected. Although maybe it wouldn’t if you people weren’t dumb enough to constantly be tripping over your own feet until you need medical care.”

This time, he looks me right in the eye as he says it. It immediately feels like I’ve been shoved back in time a few weeks, to when my face was so busted open, I considered crawling to Tristan begging for his off-books patch-up job. Not that there was anything I could do. It was more the fact that he’s nice, even though he knows I’m an asshole who robbed his boyfriend’s auto shop. He would have treated me like a real person, and right then, I was gasping for it.

All those thoughts get shoved deep into my mental lock box, because they’re not helping right now. And the wary look that Eamon’s giving me is just daring me to start something that I can’t finish. When I lower my eyes and soften my posture, he can clearly see he’s won.

Again. Was there ever a question?

“Good. Now go do the job I fucking pay you to do. We both know that independent thinking isn’t your strong suit, so you could stand to run your mouth a little less. Unless this is your way of asking me to stick something in it that’ll shut you up.”

As he says it, he rubs one hand over his crotch in a way that’s meant to be seductive, but lands firmly on menacing. It doesn’t help that he then drags his hand over to the gun tucked in his waistband and strokes the barrel with the same languorous, sensual motion.

I practically tuck and roll getting out of the car before he has the chance to test out whatever he’s thinking, despite the fact that we’re stationary. All the shit I need is in my pockets, andright now, getting out of that car seems way more important than whatever danger I might be walking into.

The lock is easy.

The security camera system is fucking antiquated, and my jammers take care of it, no problem. No motion sensors. A feed store is probably not really expecting to get robbed, in the grand scheme of things.

When I pull out the spray paint and try to hype myself up to get destructive, I’m weighed down by an exhaustion that is gripping onto me by my bone marrow. Deeper in me than any other emotion I’m capable of containing. But it’s not like there’s an alternative.

Then I hear the voice, and all hell breaks loose. Both inside and outside of me.

With adrenaline rushing through my veins, I duck to the side before whoever the voice belongs to can see me.

It’s an old man. Not super old, but old enough to be slow. Bent over a little and choosing his way in the dark more carefully than a young person might.

“Who’s there?” he calls out, sounding not nearly as afraid as I would like him to.

Fuck.

I need to get out of here, but I haven’t even started working yet and I know Eamon’s going to be pissed.

For just a second, I finger the small knife that’s strapped onto my belt. The one for emergencies. Without a doubt, Eamon would want me to at least do something threatening to terrify the man if I can’t manage any actual damage to the store.

I know I won’t. It makes me a shitty criminal, but this is probably someone’s grandfather. The thought of scaring the shit out of him for the sake of one of Eamon’s pointless power plays makes me feel sick.

I have to run.

Instead of moving toward the man, I sidestep as nimbly as I can while crouched, moving down the big, echoey aisle in the direction of the far wall. A rustle tells me he might be able to hear me, but I know I’m faster, even in this position.

In less than a minute, I’ve made it to the wall and then hustled to the exit, still too low for him to see me clearly. As soon as my feet hit the dry, packed dirt outside, I’m sprinting. The cameras are still down, and I need to be fast enough to get out of sight, because he almost definitely has a gun tucked away somewhere.

I’m completely out of breath by the time I pile into Eamon’s car. His eyes widen, obviously not expecting me back this soon and also not expecting me to be running. On instinct, he cranks the engine and takes off back to the main road so we can melt into whatever passes for traffic here at this time of night.

It takes a long time for me to catch my breath. Especially because as soon as the adrenaline of running begins to filter out of me, I get a new batch of something worse. Something that’s less like normal fight or flight and more like terror. Because now that my mind is clear, I’m acutely aware of how pissed Eamon is going to be when he figures out what I did.

“What happened?”

His voice makes my focus sharpen, but I repress the urge to shiver.

“There was someone in there. He came out and saw me, so I had to run for it.”

“Before or after you trashed the place?”

I want to lie, but I know it’ll only make things worse in the long run.

“Before,” I say in a shallow whisper.

“What? Speak up.”

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