Superstar Maguire’s right, asshole.
Bo stares out into the woods, petrified, then sees the broken limb laying on the ground. He looks up, his eyes darting through the trees. He’s not stupid, he knows it’s not big enough to have fallen and hit him hard enough to break. But he also thinks he’s the only one left out here.
Slowly, he stands and listens, hearing nothing but the forest sounds. Once he’s satisfied there’s no one there, he turns around and pulls up the back of his shirt. As soon as he lifts his arm, he winces in pain, letting out a groan. He finishes pulling up his shirt, and when he does, I see a six-inch gash where the broken nub of the branch tore through his muscle. It’s bleeding. A lot.
Bo reaches back and swipes his fingers across it, rubbing them together as he studies the blood and curses under his breath. Finally, he pulls his shirt down and continues up the hillside, picking up the pace a little. I glance down and spy something in the leaves. I can just make out the faint outline of my torn, red bikini underwear with the lace waistband lying next to a fallen poplar branch. I watch Bo continue trudging up the hill, looking back periodically with paranoia.
I wait to make sure he doesn’t turn back and realize what he did.
Soon, he disappears over the crest with the rest of my clothes and I start up the hill after him. But I don’t care what he’s doing now, I need to figure out where the hell I am. I reach the top of the hill and walk another short distance until I emerge from a tree line onto the gravel shoulder of a road.
Across the road, lined with honeysuckle, is an abandoned garage with a shadow of a sign bearing the painted cursive words, Grumpy’s Motorcycles. It’s barely visible, but I recognize it, without a doubt. I’m on Grisham Road. It’s a long way, but if I take this road west, I’ll eventually come to another entrance to Palomino.
Bo crosses the road and continues across the cracked asphalt to the garage. He disappears behind the flaking cinderblock building and a minute later, I hear the engine of a car. I watch with seething rage as his white Lancer appears from around the side of the building and pulls out onto Grisham. Seconds later, his tail lights fade into the distance and I’m left on the side of the deserted road, a poisonous mixture of fury and betrayal simmering in the pit of my stomach.
Focus.
I have to get to Colson. I have to show him where to find me, so he can lead me back home.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Barrett
One Year Ago
I shouldn’t have let my emotions get the better of me. But we’re all human and make mistakes, especially when my best friend is accusing me of trying to fuck her fiancé. It’s all too ridiculous, even for me.
I blow up Brett’s phone until she blocks me. Then, I blow up Bowen’s phone until he blocks me, too. At that point, I don’t care if she knows I’ve been calling him non-stop. He can tell whatever lies about me he wants. It doesn’t matter now. I should’ve just called her right after it happened, work and morning routines be damned. Maybe I was still in shock.
That morning, when Bowen said he could come fix my outlet, I’d just finished drying my hair when I realized my shirt was still hanging in the laundry room with the rest of my clothes in the dryer. After flying down the stairs and tearing through my kitchen in nothing but a pair of purple lace panties, I grab an armful of clothes and run back into the kitchen, only to let out a shrill scream when see a tall, dark silhouette standing at the counter next to the refrigerator.
Clutching my clothes, I stumble backward, curling in on myself in terror. I’m about to take off running through the dining room to the back door, naked or not, when I catch a glimpse of Bowen’s broad grin in the dim light. I stare at him, frozen, with my jaw hanging.
“Shit,” Bowen chuckles, “sorry, sweetheart.”
I let out a livid groan, wrapping my arms tighter around myself, “What are you doing here?” I snap. “When did you come in?”
“Got you a new outlet,” he replies, lifting a white box and jiggling it between his fingers, “I texted you when I was on my way. Didn’t you get it?” He steps around the corner of the counter and leans against the island.
I blink a few times, still trying to get my bearings, “No. I mean, I don’t know. I haven’t looked at my phone.”
Now that I know there’s not some masked intruder in my house and I won’t be murdered before work, I can calm down. But it doesn’t last for long because, even though it’s just Bowen, I’m still standing in the middle of the kitchen in my panties—and only my panties—trying to cover myself with a wad of loose laundry. This is beyond embarrassing.
Jesus, he probably saw my tits and everything.
“Doesn’t matter,” he pulls the new outlet out and tosses the box onto the granite behind him, “it only takes a couple minutes to replace.”.
“Oh, good,” I swallow hard and refocus, “sorry for screaming at you. I’ll go change and be right down.”
I start to scurry past him, but his leg flies up and he plants his boot on the pantry door with a thud, blocking my path. At first, I just stare at his leg, unable to process why it’s there. My eyes dart up to his face, his expression is unchanged. He’s looking at me with the same nonchalance as before, unbothered by the fact that I just screamed bloody murder and, by the way, I’m not wearing any clothes.
“Excuse me, Bowen,” I say with a hint of sarcasm.
He likes fucking with people, including me, but it usually takes the form of trash-talking banter or engaging the child locks on the back doors of his truck so I can’t get out right away.
“Before you go, I wanted to ask you something.”
Seriously? Now?
I look at him impatiently, hoping he’ll hurry it up so I can go put some clothes on, “What is it?”
“Has Brett told you anything about the guy she works with?” he asks.
“Which guy?”
He tosses his hair out of his eye, “The guy that put a gun to her head.”
I glance down at Bowen’s leg, still planted on the pantry door, “I know he works there.” I keep my tone light, because there’s something about Bowen that doesn’t seem right.
“So, she did tell you about Colson,” there’s a hint of smugness in his tone, “she told me about him when we met, but said I’m the only one who knows what happened with him.”
Shit.
Bowen gives a shake of his head, “It doesn’t matter.”
Like hell it doesn’t…
“How much do you know about him?”
