“It’s a Beetle.”
“Yes, Sam, it’s a Beetle.”
“But it’s not even the cool kind.” It was only a few years old, but Riley had said she owned it outright. So she’d picked the damned thing.
“This coming from a guy who drives a Saturn.” She laughed up at him, the sun shining on her face, making her eyes a clear, paler green. And somehow, all the strain and worry etched there had faded. Sam stood still, struck anew by the beauty he hadn’t noticed the night before. Cleaned up, rested, and briefly free of tension, she was gorgeous in a wholesome, open way.
He shook himself. The last thing Riley needed right now was him hitting on her. “I don’t drive a Saturn by choice,” he argued. “My old car was an ’84 Camaro.”
She stood and rested her arms on top of the car door. The position emphasized the curve of her waist and swell of her breasts. What the hell was wrong with him? Focus, Sam.
“What happened to it?” she asked.
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Uh, I rolled it. Back when—doesn’t matter. It was totaled.”
Riley looked curious, but Sam didn’t explain. It was too long a story and wouldn’t alleviate any of her fears.
He cleared his throat. “So, it all looks okay? Probably as the cops said, just joyriders.”
Riley shrugged. “I guess. They couldn’t have towed it here with an explosive wired to it, right?”
Sam chuckled. “I doubt it. Besides, if someone wanted to blow you up, there was more opportunity yesterday.”
“Right.” She picked at the rubber around the door. “So, now what?”
Now, Sam had a decision to make. The smart thing to do was to go to Boston with her. The harassment, the stalking, the level of ability it took to do things like make her rent check bounce—it all added up to something much bigger than the goons at the bar last night. She needed more than just a little advice and a map.
But he didn’t want to go. The idea of taking charge, managing the situation, was like a comfortable old coat. Completely familiar and perfectly fitting. But he didn’t want anything to do with goddess business anymore. He’d spent six years managing Quinn and her life, then almost three more helping Marley get straightened out and set up the educational program. The Protectorate was more of the same, and Sam had left because he didn’t want to take care of people anymore.
And Riley had made it clear she didn’t want anyone taking care of her. But she needed it. Sam knew the Society could help her, but he couldn’t convince her of that by talking. Could he take her up there and leave her without getting sucked back in?
Movement to the left caught Sam’s eye. When he turned to look, the lot was empty, but a scrape and metallic clink echoed lightly from the rows of cars. The hair on his arms and neck prickled.
“Shh,” he said, though Riley hadn’t said anything, only turned her head to follow his gaze, her whole body going tense so quickly he felt it from three feet away.
And there they were. Two of the people from last night, the woman and the guy Sam had fought.
“Fuck,” Riley breathed, spotting them hunkered behind an old white Oldsmobile.
Sam grabbed her arm and tugged her toward the driver’s seat. “Get in. Drive away. I’ll—”
“No.” She was sick of being on the defensive, sick of running, sick of letting everyone else make decisions for her. She pulled her arm out of Sam’s grip and took off, his muttered curse and heavy footsteps following behind. He caught up as she reached the Oldsmobile and slammed her hand down on the trunk of the car. The couple lurking behind it rose, the woman grinning, the man trying to look intimidating.
But anger drove Riley this time, not fear, and she already had a weapon. This baby was over two decades old, and it was all steel.
The contact with the metal changed her, cleared her thinking. Her muscles tightened, filling with power. It was like sipping caffeine or stepping into the shower in the morning—that moment when alertness takes over—only magnified by a thousand.
Her left foot shot out, hooking behind the guy’s right knee, and he sprawled onto the gravel. She set her foot on his abdomen and pushed just enough to hold him still. In the same movement, she caught the woman’s arm before her punch connected with Riley’s head. The woman’s bright eyes widened when she was pulled against her will right up into Riley’s face.
“Who are you, and what do you want with me?” she ground out.
The woman sneered. “Like we’d tell you.”
Riley tightened her fingers. The woman yelped and twisted against the pressure of Riley’s grip. “Who are you, and what do you want with me?” Riley repeated. Some of her anger settled and she became less focused, more aware. Sam stood behind her. He’d followed her but didn’t interfere. He was just there if she needed him.
It was the first time she’d had someone in her corner since her parents died. For a few seconds, she wasn’t sure if her gratitude made her feel stronger or weaker.
But now wasn’t the time to contemplate it. Despite the pain and fear in her eyes, the woman sneered again. “We’re pros. We don’t talk.”
Riley leaned her weight on the guy under her foot. She glanced down at him, not taking her eyes off the woman completely. “Hey, you, on the ground. I can move my heel a few inches south if it will be more comfortable.”
He keened and pushed at her unmoving foot.
Riley smirked at the woman. “I think he might talk.”
“I’ll kill him first.” The woman twisted again, hard, and pulled her foot back as if to kick the man in the head. The movement pulled Riley forward, almost lifting her hand off the car. She reacted instinctively, too powerfully, and yanked them both back so her hand stayed flat. She needed the contact, every cell of it.
And she’d just revealed her weakness to the enemy. The woman’s sneer became more confident, but before she could act, Sam moved forward.
“Let’s do this the easy way.” He circled behind the duo and stuck his hand in the woman’s back pocket for her wallet. “Sharla Cannalunis, Georgia,” he read from her driver’s license. “Mean anything?”
“Not yet.” Riley had never been to Georgia and had never heard the name. She didn’t have the skills to find more than Sharla’s Facebook profile, but that wouldn’t stop her from trying. “What else is in there?”
He flipped through a few bills, checked a couple of credit cards, and dug behind them to find some crumpled receipts. “Hokeland Motel and Exxon Mobil, both local. That’s it.”
“How about him?” Riley waited while Sam retrieved the guy’s wallet. This one told them he was Vern Nurnan, also from Georgia. No credit cards, but a business card declared him an associate of a company called Millinger.
Sam dropped the wallets on the ground and dug in their pockets again until he came up with one cell phone between them. He pushed a few buttons, then pulled out his own phone and stored some numbers into it. When he was done, he nodded at Riley. When she didn’t move, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist until she released Sharla.
“I bet at least one of these numbers goes to their boss,” he told her. “He won’t be happy when we call him.”
“Or she,” Riley added, watching Sharla. She didn’t react enough to indicate which was right.
Sam hauled Vern off the ground and gripped both of them by the scruffs of their necks. “Call the police,” he told Riley.
“You don’t want to do that,” Vern said with certainty, and zero concern.