Page 25 of Ship Outta Luck

She’s panicking.

“Are you gonna be sick?” I lean in, trying to gauge her expression.

It takes all my control to keep from touching her. I almost lost it when she inspected my tattoo on the drive here. It took everything I had to act like it was no big deal, like her hand whispering against my skin wasn’t burning me, wasn’t branding me.

I can’t question her like this.

I’m too worked up over her, too affected by her proximity, the way her body felt as I carried her away from the Russian hitman.

One thing at a time, I tell myself.

We both need to calm down. She needs food.

“No. The protein bar helped. So did the water.” Her voice is a breathy whisper. “I just uh, I want to know why you think someone is following us.” The handle clicks as she opens the door, and she slides from the seat.

Well, at least she’s recovered most of her motor control. That’s a good sign.

The sooner I get this over with and get away from her, the better, because I’m not sure I can tell myself I’m not attracted to her much longer, and that shit will only complicate an already fucked up case.

I tear my eyes away from the soft curve of her ass and swallow, glancing at the rifle case in the back seat.

I shouldn’t need it inside. We won’t even be inside long enough to need it. I need to get in, get out, and keep this op on track.

June’s already halfway up the steps of her small bayside bungalow, perched on stilts like an overgrown bird, before I make it out of the Jeep.

A massive boat is tethered to the dock. Her father’s boat, according to the DEA file on him. It’s older, but seaworthy and legal, and she inherited it when he died.

I need to look in that boat. It’s one of the things Charlie and the DEA flagged as likely having info on the lost drug sub in it, and if June’s a dead end, then the boat might not be.

The more I spend time with June, the harder it is to think she has a hand in this.

I don’t know if that’s wishful thinking or instinct, or both.

Palms and flowering bushes flank the front of the house. Water lapping at the dock, a constant whirl of noise alongsidefish splashing in the canal waters. In the dusk, the light blue house fades to charcoal, violet bougainvillea turning black where it climbs against the stairs.

It would be a perfect place to relax.

That is, if I was here for a completely different reason.

My chest tightens. I’m here… with June. The target I’ve been watching day and night. The key to getting the shipment, to getting respect and getting my goddamn business more work.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I catch up to her as she steps onto the fenced porch, teetering unsteadily. I catch her elbow, and she looks back quickly, the sudden flash of fear in her eyes chased away by a soft word.

“Thanks.”

“You okay?” I frown.

In the fading light, the shadows obscure the light in her eyes.

“Dean…” She shakes her head, fishing for her keys, and stops. Her mouth is a pretty ‘o’ of surprise. “Charlie has my keys. Shoot.”

I step closer, hating the look of irritation sweeping across her features, wanting to wipe it away.

Maybe I’m half-drunk from the half-beer.

Maybe it’s her.

Leaning down, I lift the ‘Hey Y’all’ mat from the porch, picking up the extra key.

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