Page 6 of The Woman with the Target on her Back (Grassi Family)

“Trav, come on,” I said, reaching up into the cupboards, pulling open doors.

Nothing.

“Fuck,” I hissed, looking around when I was done.

Then I saw them.

Four racks sitting on top of her big-ass industrial oven.

There was no good reason for all the racks to be out of it.

I walked back, sure I was crazy for thinking she could be inside. But, objectively, it was big enough. A tight pinch, but in an emergency, I could see it working for a smaller person like Traveler.

Grabbing the handle, I yanked it down.

And there she was, scrunched up so tight that I wasn’t sure how she was breathing.

But there.

Alive.

Breathing.

Shaking like a fucking leaf.

“Hey, alright. It’s alright,” I said. I wasn’t great with comforting people. That wasn’t something that I was generally left to do. “They’re gone. But we gotta get gone too,” I said, placing my gun on the counter, so I could grab her and pull her out.

I wasn’t sure how the fuck she got herself in, because getting her out wasn’t easy. But, I guess, you could make yourself do all sorts of uncomfortable things in a pinch.

“Okay, you’re alright,” I assured her when she dropped to the floor. Where she didn’t even bother to unfold herself from her fetal position. “Traveler, come on. We have to go,” I said, trying to pry her arms down.

She had to get it together.

If people were after her, they would likely come back.

“Alright,” I said, striding toward the door, grabbing her bag, and tossing the long strap over my head, stuffing her keys in my pocket, then going back toward her, slipping my arms under her, and lifting her up into my arms.

She wasn’t hurt that I could tell.

But, clearly, her mental and emotional state wasn’t great.

I had nowhere to take her, but this was a big city. I imagined there would be an opening at some hotel somewhere until I could get her to calm down.

With that in mind, I tucked her into my passenger seat, keeping an eye on the random men suddenly around on the street who were clearly keeping an eye on me, then got in the car, and peeled off.

CHAPTER TWO

Traveler

“Why are those cookies called The Queen Mother?” a random man in a suit—likely one of the developers trying to take over the neighborhood—asked.

“Because they look like pussies,” I told him, barely holding back a smile at the way his eyes widened and his lips fell slightly open.

Oh, but it was so much fun to shock the menfolk.

But I was a little bored, so I went ahead and grabbed one of the cookies.

“See, here are the labia,” I said, pointing, watching his neck flush above the neck of his collar. “This little pink sprinkle here? That’s the clitoris…”

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