Page 92 of Shatterproof

“I mean…our boss.” His impish smirk simply deepens the expression. “And I started to wonder if maybe he took a page out of that playbook.”

“Tell me I get to shoot him in the face.”

“Negative.” My best friend folds his fingers together. “At least for now. I’m still looking, combing through his shit, so I’ll keep you posted. Oh! Did you know he has a cabin up in Vermont?”

Our conversation from earlier has me replying through gritted teeth. “It’s come up.”

“Pretty sure he’s got deep ties to the maple syrup mob, but I need to keep digging. My other contact – the one that does tattoosandworks at his family’s mechanic shop – just sent me the files this morning.”

“How many computer contacts do you have?”

“Like rubbers, you can never have too many, Wahl.”

Louder laughs leave me as I grab the handle to my case. “I need to lock this up and shower off. Can you wait around until I get out?”

He nods and opens his laptop, which becomes my cue to exit.

Securing my rifle back in the hidden wall safe in my closet alone allows me a much-needed chance to truly breathe. Under regular circumstances, I do that while driving; however, having to ensure that I’m not being tailed or that my newly repaired truck has managed to collect a tracking device on it has been preventing that from happening.

The truth is…I gotta get my shit together.

I gotta get my head back on the mission – andonlythe mission at hand.

And as much as I want that mission to be making Arley scream until the cows come home, it’s not.

Being “together” isn’t even really a necessity.

It’s just an easy tool to distract those that may be watching.

But fuck…if it isn’t distracting me too.

Not wanting to keep Blu around longer than necessary, I high tail my ass to the glass contraption that was definitely one of the selling points for me.

What can I say?

I like that its big.

I like that it’s wide.

I like the fact I practically see my entire bathroom from my position inside making it a little more defendable than others.

Hot water pours from the showerhead, yet rather than race to rinse and wash and hop out, I wrap my hands around the bar in front of me.

Drop my head forward.

Let the heat cascade off my shoulders and down the tattooed Air Force insignia that’s stationed in the middle of my back.

I just need a minute.

One minute to forget that someone’s trying to kill the person I love most in the world.

One minute to forget that now is not the time to tell her how I really feel.

One…goddamn…minute to forget about the fact that when all this is over, when all is said and done, that how I really feel probably won’t even matter because I’m probably not the man she really wants.

I’ve never rented out a room at a restaurant.

I don’t know any chefs that owe me favors.

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