Page 17 of Taken By the Bounty Hunter

“More water?”

I shake my head, studying his penetrating amber eyes.

“Coffee? Tea? Milk? Soda?”

“No. I don’t need anything.”

“Thank god, because I don’t actually have the last two things I mentioned.”

The way he says it, totally deadpan, makes me laugh. His lip twitches, and I have the overwhelming urge to kiss it.

“I don’t need anything,” I tell him. “I just need you to stop asking questions and let me look at you.”

The eye contact is too penetrating to bear. His warm hand on my hip is too real. The lazy strokes of his fingers in my hair are too perfect. His leather and soap smell is in my lungs, and his lips are closer than any man’s have a right to be.

“It’s really you,” I say, gently squeezing his shoulder.

“It’s really me.”

“I’m in your house.”

He gives me a wry grin. “Take it in. It’s nothing fancy. But it’s safe. If you want to go to a hotel, I can arrange that. I’ll have to bum a ride since Joaquin is making Sonja disappear at the moment.”

“Who is Sonja?”

That wry grin widens. “That’s my car, baby.”

“Oh.” I bite my lip, feeling stupid at my momentary jealousy over a stupid car with a woman’s name.

“Do you want me to take you to a hotel?”

I shake my head and look around. It’s ugly, but that means nothing to me as long as I’m safe. The gold linoleum curls up with age in the kitchen’s dingy corners. The white refrigerator clanks and hums loudly, like it’s on its last legs. There’s a sink that’s too small to wash more than a few dishes at a time, and the stove has dials that look straight out of the 1960s. The lace curtains over the single kitchen window are discolored and, I’d guess, haven’t been washed in a century. We didn’t have the most up-to-date appliances while living in the church dormitories and later in my mother’s extremely overcrowded house. But it was nothing as shabby as everything I see here.

“Will that loud man be coming back?” I ask.

Jefferson sees me wince.

He nods. “He lives here. Don’t worry. His bark is worse than his bite. Just two rules with him. Don’t ask what he does for a living, and don’t touch the tequila in the freezer.”

“Not a problem,” I say, never having touched alcohol in my life.

“Sorry the place is such a shit hole.”

I laugh at the description. “It’s fine,” I say. Anything is better than solitary confinement, I think silently.

“It’s a dump,” he says, smiling. “And I live in a closet. For now.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” I repeat, positive he’s exaggerating.

He explains that the second bedroom is being kept empty for some mysterious renter who’s paying big bucks. And since Jefferson is not bringing in a lot of cash these days for some reason, he’s agreed to make room.

So, I suppose that means Jefferson is poor.

Well, I didn’t have any expectations. In fact, I never had any delusions that he would be made of money and that he’d spirit me away to a mansion somewhere. Poor is just fine. I don’t care about money. It’s not like I made a ton of money cleaning motel rooms during my stint of freedom.

“I’ll be happy here.”

I don’t know why everything I say makes Jefferson laugh, but at least his laughter doesn’t feel like mockery. If I make him smile, I’m happy.

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