Page 72 of One Spicy Summer

“Good fucking luck, asshole,” she hisses, yanking the door open and disappearing into the world outside.

Roman speaks up after a few beats of silence.

“She needs help, man.Follow her.Find out who she's living with.” I hesitate for only a second.

Then I’m sprinting for my truck, heart hammering. By the time I get in, that little, red Camry was peeling out of the parking lot. I throw my truck in gear and follow, staying back just far enough to not get noticed.

She doesn’t know what I drive. That is my only advantage.

Dark, tinted windows, sunglasses, and sheer desperation helps, too.

We hit the main strip, then she turns sharply down a side street, Canal Banks Circle.I keep going straight, then loop back around.

If she thinks she is being followed, she'd circle, too.But she doesn’t.

Pulling into a shoe store parking lot nearby, I wait. No sign of her. After a few minutes, I ease my truck down Canal Banks Circle.

Run-down houses. Kids on bikes. Manufactured homes trying too hard to blend in. Then I spot it, her battered Camry parked in front of the nicest house on the block. No other cars around.

Heart hammering, I pull over near a tree and climb out.

You shouldn’t be doing this.

Yeah? Try stopping me.

Before I can even knock, the door flies open.

Presley storms out, her face twists with fury. “What the fuck are you doing here? Get the hell off my property before I call the cops.”

I laugh darkly. “Judging by the way you look, they'd probably arrest you for running a meth lab or a whorehouse.”

She flinches.

And I immediately hate myself for saying it.

“Fuck you, Rygaard!” she screams. “You’re part of the reason I’m like this!”

“Oh no, sweetheart. You're not dumping all that shit on me, not until I knoweverything.”

Tears well in her eyes as she shoves at my chest. Ninety-eight pounds of fury against two-twenty of solid muscle.

“You're going to hurt yourself,” I mutter, catching her wrists.

“As if I could be more hurt than I already am,” she whispers, voice shaking.

“Clearly, you can.”

“Don't call me Prez,” she says, pounding weakly against me. “Don't you dare.”

“I know you hate me,” I say quietly. “And I’ll accept that. But you’re gonna hear my truth.”

I drag her inside and slam the door behind us. “Are you alone?”

She gives a tiny nod. “But not for long. He can't see you here.”

“Who the fuck is he?”

She just glares at me. “You have fifteen minutes,” she says. “Say what you have to say.”

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