Page 6 of Runaway Rogue

“Black coffee?” She’s already placing a cup in the machine; already grinding the beans. Betty watches me from beneath lowered lashes, her tattoos so vivid on her bare arms. Roses and birds and a string of pearls, even an old fashioned anchor on her wrist. Every time she moves, I catch a new sliver of color. Another puzzle to solve.

I clear my throat. “Please.”

“For the mystery man,” Betty says when she places the take out cup on the counter. When she spins it around, the words are there in purple sharpie.Mystery man. And there are a thousand fake names I could give her, even names that I have passports to match, but for some foolish reason, I give her my real one.

“River.” The cardboard is hot in my hand. I take a scalding sip, and the coffee is dark and bitter. “River Dawes.”

“River,” Betty repeats, fiddling with the napkin holder. “Suits you. Sounds kind of… wild.”

It does, huh? I lower the cup, pulse spiking. Every time I see this woman, I’m left wrestling with my worst instincts—with the urgent desire to throw her over my shoulder and carry her away, that ponytail swinging against my hip. Finders keepers.

“You always come in when there’s no line, River.”

I lift one shoulder. “Lucky, I guess.”

Luck’s got nothing to do with it—I’m careful. Can’t afford too many eyes on me, not in my line of work, and especially not with this dangerous pattern I’m in. But Betty grins like she sees right through my bullshit, like she knows exactly how well-timed my visits are.

“Next time,” she says, her husky voice doing something to my insides, “you should come on my break. We could sit together. Shoot the shit. I’ll sneak you a free biscotti.”

I could never drink in, could never take such a risk, but when she says it like that… it’s tempting.Tootempting.

“I hate biscotti,” I say.

Betty’s eyes sparkle. “Too bad.”

My neck is hot as I leave the coffee shop. Nerves prickle under my skin, and I canfeelher eyes on me, watching me go. The bell rings above the door, and the street outside is hot and stifling, the air scented with baking concrete and ozone.

I need to stop coming here. Need to give Betty up.

She’s not mine anyway—and she never could be.

Three

Betty

Agent Dawes is still in my tent when I slip back inside. The sight of him there, looming over my crappy nightstand and poking at my hairbrush, makes something agitated settle deep inside me.

Guess I figured he’d disappear. Melt into the night like a wisp of smoke.

Exhaling slowly, I raise my eyebrows at the man who turned my life upside down.

In the darkness, Agent Dawes frowns. Gestures me closer. Even with the crackle of the campfire, the low drone of voices and the distant sighs of the sea, he’s too cautious to speak. To make a single noise. Because we’re out of view in here, the canvas flap of my tent blocking out roving eyes, but that doesn’t mean we’re secure. It’s not like Echo and his goons are the knocking type.

You know… I could yell right now. Could let those jerks know he’s here, let them taze him or worse, then go back to my regular life at the coffee shop. Back to my rut. This would all be over—assuming they’d keep their word and deliver me safely home.

Instead, I step forward, my heart thudding against my ribs. Agent River Dawes is taller than I remember. Broader, too, his muscled shoulders stretching that black t-shirt.

Maybe I’ve just never looked at him properly. Seen him to scale, you know? After all, we’ve never stood in front of each other like this, without the cafe counter between our bodies—nothing but sticky evening air between us.

Dark eyes roam over me, detached and clinical. Agent Dawes takes my wrist and turns my arm to check for injuries; he scowls at the scrapes on my palm. They’re pink and itchy, though I wash them with soap every chance I get.

“Tripped over a root two days ago,” I whisper.

He puts a finger over his mouth again. Ooh-kay.

Silent pat-down it is. And as I let him poke and prod at me, turning me in a slow circle, brushing the dirt and sweat from my shoulders, a weird sense of calm settles over me.Aaaah.

It’s so zen, having this big, scowling brute fuss over me. Ever since those agents pounded on my door in the middle of the night, I’ve been wound tight, a knot of panic twisting my belly.

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