Love Me Dangerous (Love Me Dangerous #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

ZACH

I weave through the crowd, my focus on the girl in the center.

Something’s wrong.

The song ends, and the crowd erupts with cheers and hoots. I slip past a group of women bouncing up and down, their arms in the air. One woman gives me a fleeting glance, and her eyes widen. Maybe it’s the SECURITY printed in yellow across my shirt, or maybe it’s my determination, no doubt clear on my face.

Another song starts, and the woman looks away, drawn back to the show.

I keep moving, the music from the stage like thunder in my ears. They call us buzzers. Extra security for the shows. It’s easy work, until it’s not.

I sidestep an older couple with two preteen girls, the mom in a jeans skirt and the dad in Wranglers, their twin daughters in matching tank tops and cowboy boots. The mom’s gaze flicks from me to the asshole dancing too close to a young woman in a white sundress. Relief fills her expression.

Another sign my instincts aren’t wrong.

I keep moving.

The young woman is at the back of a group of friends, all facing the stage, singing and swaying to the music. He’s the tall one in a trio of guys directly behind them. When I first saw him pressed against her back, I assumed they were a couple. But she shoved him back, a scowl on her face.

It’s my job to diffuse the situation before it gets out of hand.

The tall guy pulls her against his chest again to grind into her from behind. She elbows him and tries to squirm away, her eyes tense. He runs his hand up her thigh, rumpling the hem of her dress. His friends close in around them like a shield.

Shit.

From the stage, the guitar solo rises to a fury, and the band joins back in, whipping the crowd into a frenzy. People are jumping and screaming all around me, the air tense with so much noise. The pit boss insisted we wear earplugs. He failed to protect his hearing when he was younger, and now his ears ring all the time. The earplugs are his way of looking out for us, but it means I don’t hear cries for help. I have to rely on other cues, like the one lighting up my gut.

I catch a flash of white sundress behind the fence of guys as I push between them, the scent of their musky aftershave mixing with booze and sweat. They jolt like I’ve shocked them, but they’re too late to stop me from grabbing the tall guy’s bicep. The night is warm, and his skin is hot to the touch. My firm tug on his arm pulls him off balance, and he has to let go of the young woman.

“What the fuck?” he barks over the music, trying to shake me off.

But I’ve learned a few things about survival since I fled Alaska, and he’s not getting rid of me that easily.

The goal, however, is to diffuse the situation without causing a disturbance that could escalate and put people in danger.

The tall guy tries to spin so he can face me, but my forward momentum is putting him at a disadvantage, and he stumbles. “You and your friends find somewhere else to watch the show,” I say, my mouth close to his ear as I keep him from falling on his ass.

“Why?” he fires back, his face pinched in anger. “I paid to be up front.”

The guy’s friends crowd around us, their aggressive energy making the sticky night air feel menacing. To my relief, the young woman has slipped back into her friend group. Safe.

“It’s that, or you’ll be asked to leave the show,” I say, still holding the tall guy’s bicep.

From my left, Tommy, another buzzer, is moving my way, a concerned look on his face. Backup. That’s good.

The friends see him, too, and it finally clicks.

“Whatever,” the tall guy says, and nods to his friends. They slip into the crowd.

Tommy nears, but I shake my head, and he nods in acknowledgment. Crisis averted. I watch the group of guys melt into the crowd before I turn away.

As I weave back to my post, the young woman in the white sundress looks over her shoulder. We lock eyes while one of her friends fiddles with the broken strap of her dress. The distressed look on her pretty face says it all.

Thank you , she mouths.

Before I can reply, the song ends, and the crowd around me goes wild. I lose the young woman in the sea of bodies jumping and twisting, shouting. I peer through the crowd, hoping to spot her, but she’s gone.

“You sure you can’t stay on?” Sam, the pit boss, asks, his watery blue eyes fixing me with a calm but unwavering gaze.

“I’m sure,” I reply. The tour is headed west, to Alaska, and I can’t go back there. Not until my stepdad is out of the picture and it’s safe again.

“I’ll miss those sharp instincts ‘a yours,” Sam says, counting out my pay. It would be more if I didn’t insist on cash only, but I can’t risk exposing myself. It’s better this way. For him and for me. “I hope you put them to good use.”

“Yes, sir.” I fold the cash twice and slip the lump into my pocket. As soon as I’m in the clear, I’ll stash it in the usual way. If I get jumped, I won’t lose it all .

He extends his hand. I fight my hesitation. Sam’s a good guy. He’s not out to steal from me or hurt me. He likely didn’t believe my story about having credit problems, yet he didn’t challenge me or turn me away, and I’m grateful. It’s only by the kindness of people like him that I’ve survived.

I take Sam’s hand and give it a firm shake. The physical sensation of his palm against mine is a shock, but I try not to show it on my face. It brings up too many emotions, none of them safe to share. Just one more consequence of being on the run.

“You take care,” Sam says as our hands slide free.

“You too.” I turn away.

It’s four in the morning, with dawn just a pale pink blush in the eastern sky. It’s become my favorite time of day. It means I’ve made it through another night.

I walk to the back gate and slip past the guard to the parking area, whistling Springsteen’s “Preacher’s Daughter.” It’s sad, but hopeful. My dad used to sing it from memory, his eyes getting wistful. After he died, I couldn’t bear to hear it, but the melody finds me sometimes.

The concert ended hours ago, but hardcore fans stay the night in vans or tents in the nearby field, then follow the show to the next stop. A few are stirring, packing up tents, or making breakfast. My empty stomach rumbles. I could wander through the camp, maybe score a cup of coffee or maybe a scrap of someone’s muffin tossed in the trash, but this is the safest time of day to travel, and I best be getting on my way.

There’s a border to cross and, hopefully, a fresh start waiting for me on the other side.

It’s three miles to Sweetgrass. According to the Google map I memorized at the Kamloops library, there’s a diner and a trucker gas stop—a good place to size up my options. I’m exhausted from being up all night, but there’s no time to rest.

With the sunrise comes a soft breeze that bites my cheeks and sends the dust on the sidewalk skittering into the weeds. I pull my ball cap lower. Once I’m in Idaho, I can hitch my way south to someplace warmer before winter. Find work, a room. Wait for things to settle down back home.

Like my stepdad Kristov behind bars. Like Terrilynn’s murder solved .

Grief sticks to my insides like tar. If only I could have protected her. She was my friend, and I let her down.

I huff a breath and focus on moving forward.

The distant mountains sharpen in the hazy morning light. My empty stomach rumbles again, loud over the whoosh of passing cars. I kick at a weed growing through a crack in the sunbaked sidewalk .

Well I stole a kiss from the preacher’s daughter

Her daddy warned me to stay away

I take the street through the industrial district, humming the chorus. I kept watch for the rest of the show last night, but the tall guy and his aggressive friends did not reappear. The young woman in the white sundress stayed with her group until the final encore. I lost track of her after that when I left my post to monitor the west exit. The mixed look she gave me keeps playing in my mind. Gratitude, but edged with something else. Determination? Hostility?

Like I had robbed her of the victory of fighting that guy off herself.

I grimace. Three against one aren’t great odds. Even for a tough little thing like her.

The route through the industrial section of town leads to the giant parking lot with the tower advertising gas prices and a diner serving all-day breakfast. My stomach rumbles again. If the mood is right, I could order something while I wait for an opportunity.

The giant side lot reserved for semis is packed four rows deep. Hitching a ride with one of the drivers isn’t an option. I learned that the hard way in Prince Rupert. No stowing away, either. At border crossings, commercial vehicles are inspected from top to bottom.

Across the freeway from the diner, train tracks run parallel. That’s option B, but it’s risky in a different way, like the time I woke up in a boxcar with a knife to my throat. I shudder, even though the summer sun is warm on my shoulders.

Keeping my head tipped low, with the brim of my hat for cover, I scan the lot of parked cars while heading to the diner entrance. A good number of Idaho plates. That’s good. Camper vans, some probably from last night’s show, plus a mix of SUVs, trucks, and passenger cars.

Ideally, I hitch for free, but I’ll pay if I have to. Something else I’ve learned since being on my own. Almost everyone can be bought for the right price.

When I pull open the heavy glass door, I’m hit with a warm gust heavy with the scent of flapjacks and fake maple syrup and the scrape of silverware on plates blending with the din of conversation. My eager stomach is like a pincushion, but I soften its bite with a slow inhale of the comforting scents of food. To the left, a large entryway in the shape of an arch connects the diner to the convenience store and cashier for the gas station. To my relief, my face isn’t on any of the wanted posters lining the left wall, their corners curled from age.

“For here or to go?” a waitress asks, snapping my attention away from the convenience store entrance. She’s holding a pot of coffee in one hand, and a heaping plate of eggs and hash browns in the other. The welcoming scents must have distracted me for an instant too long because the waitress releases an impatient sigh.

“Can I get a table in the back?” I nod at the empty one at the end of the long row that will allow me a full view of both the diner and the parking lot. It’s also next to the restroom.

She plucks a thick plastic menu from the slot by the cashier podium with the same hand holding the coffee pot and spins away, her steps fast.

I follow her down a walkway between the low booths lining the window and the counter where diners are seated on stools that face the kitchen. A cook in a white apron is in constant motion at the flat grill, and waitstaff breeze through for more coffee or to plate up their orders.

My waitress pauses only briefly to deliver the plate of food in her left hand to a man sitting alone, then hurries to the table I picked out. She sets down the menu as I slip off my pack and slide into the seat.

“Coffee?” She turns over the thick ceramic mug upside down on a paper coaster in front of me.

I barely nod before she fills it to the rim.

“I’ll give you a minute.” She spins away.

Being around this many people is risky, but I calm my nerves by cradling the heavy cup warmed by the coffee. Inhale the rich scents of cooking food. Appreciate the soft padding of the bench seat and the chance to rest, even if only for a little while.

After a quick scan of the menu, I decide to splurge on eggs over easy on sourdough with hash browns. The bacon is tempting, but it’s an extra four dollars.

I slide out my sketchbook and flip to a blank page. In school, I didn’t have much use for art. But it helps pass the time. Out of the corner of my eye, I keep tabs on the parking lot. Cars coming and going. People walking from gas pumps to the convenience store. Truckers having a smoke.

“What’ll it be?” my waitress asks, her gaze sweeping over my sketch before meeting my eyes. If she’s surprised at the image taking shape, it doesn’t show on her face.

I give her my order, and while she tops up my coffee, I ask, “Do the lines at the border get long?”

Her mouth crimps into a thoughtful grimace. “Fridays and weekends, it’ll back up to the bridge, especially in summer. You here for the concert?”

I don’t answer, but I get the feeling she wasn’t expecting one. When she bustles off, I get a view down the open corridor to the convenience store and the group of people filtering in—a mix of guys and young women.

My neck prickles. It’s the two groups from last night, including the young woman in the white sundress, and her friends. The guys are there, too—four in total. I must have missed one of them last night.

I return to my sketch but can’t ignore my curiosity about the group mingling inside the convenience store. If they’re here together, what I broke up last night wasn’t a random encounter.

When my waitress slides the giant oval plate in front of me, I glance up to thank her, but a figure in the convenience store archway catches my attention. It’s the young woman. Today, she’s wearing faded jeans and a blue tank top, her honey-brown hair loose about her pretty face. Last night in the dark, I didn’t notice her blue eyes and long lashes, or the rosy-pink shade of her lips.

My waitress leans in to refill my coffee, cutting off my view. When she hurries away, the entryway is vacant.

Hunger pangs needle my stomach, but I force myself to eat slowly. Savor the crunch of the toasted sourdough soaked in the egg yolk and the hearty texture of the hash browns. When my plate is bare, I’m still hungry, but I’m used to it. I gulp down some water, then remember I still need to tend to the business of stashing my pay.

A horse trailer pulls into the parking lot, the truck’s door blazed with a logo. Probably a rodeo rider or a breeder. It gives me an idea.

After tucking the orange wedges I was saving for dessert into my napkin, I slip from my booth and shoulder my pack. Inside the bathroom, I choose the farthest stall down.

Public bathrooms are a lifeline for anyone transient. I’ve never had to sleep in one, but I’ve come close. Inside the stall, I hang up my pack and take out my cash, then parcel it out. Forty bucks in the side zipper pouch. A hundred in the hidden sleeve inside, two hundred in the secret hollow I carved out of my shoe’s insole, and two twenties in my pocket.

Someday, I’ll be safe enough that these extra steps won’t be necessary. I’ll be able to fill my days with honest work and fall asleep without worrying about who might be waking me up.

I’m just zipping up after taking a leak when someone else enters the bathroom. I hold back from flushing, which will make my presence obvious. But my wait for them to do their business and leave drags on, so I peek through the crack in the door just as a guy unfolds a pill from a square of foil and slips it between his teeth. From the sink, he scoops water into his mouth and tosses his head back to swallow. In the mirror, his tense expression calms as he finger-combs his hair. I recognize him—he’s the missing guy from last night’s group.

He wipes his hands with a towel and shoots the wadded-up paper into the trash bin like it’s a fadeaway jump shot. With a snort of satisfaction, he strides for the door.

When he’s gone, I flush and shoulder my pack. I wash my hands and scrub my face at the sink, then use paper towels to dry. Outside the restroom, my table’s been cleared. The waitress is busy with another table, so I walk to the cashier. In the parking lot, the horse trailer is still there. So are the two groups from last night's show, socializing between a couple of cars, one of them a restored CJ-7.

“Um, I need to pay,” I say to the woman at the cashier stand wiping down a stack of menus.

She frowns. “Didn’t Darleen drop off your check?”

I glance at my table, but it’s been reset. “No.”

My waitress breezes by carrying a load of empty plates. “She paid it.” She nods toward the group outside. “And a nice tip, too. Thank her for me, will you, hon?”

“Yeah,” I say as a tight pain grows hot behind my breastbone. I’m torn between wanting to insist I pay the girl back and continuing to the horse trailer. The driver hasn’t returned yet, so my window of opportunity is still open.

Shit.

What about the guy in the bathroom popping pills? It could be Tylenol, but what if it’s not, and he gets behind the wheel?

Walking purposefully, my head tipped low to screen my face from any cameras, I slip between two semis. Shaded from the bright sun and sheltered from the freeway noise, I make my decision. It might be stupid, but it’s also the right one.

Yet when I round the back of the semi, the groups are already climbing into the Jeep and two other cars.

I’m too late.

What’s worse, the man driving the horse trailer is on his way back with a travel mug and a package of powdered donuts.

Time to move. Walking steadily and shielded by the angle of the trailer, I approach. There’s no time to evaluate if the horses will mind a companion. It’s a classic slant load with three stalls, each separated by a half-wall made of sturdy aluminum that swings on a hinge during loading. The big chestnut quarter horse in the middle eyes me warily as I pass, giving a low nicker. I’m guessing he’s the pickup horse. The boss. I offer him one of my orange wheels through the slats in the window. His soft lips quiver across my palm. If I wasn’t in a hurry, I’d take the time to pamper him a bit more. While he chews, I step to the back and lever the handle.

The horse in the back slot pricks her ears, but before she can get too anxious about a visitor, I run a confident hand along her hindquarters and slide in next to her.

“Easy, girl,” I say in a low tone.

If she got really freaked, she could slam me into the side of her stall. If I ended up behind her, one kick could do me serious harm.

I offer the mare my second orange wheel.

She jerks back, then comes in for a sniff. When she lips it into her mouth, I smile.

“That’s it,” I praise in a low tone. The boss in the middle stall nickers again, his ears perked. He’s protective of his ladies. I get it.

The truck door slams and the engine starts. I brace against the aluminum divider with my shoulders and give the mare my final orange. She takes it, then dusts my palm with her soft lips, searching for more. I stroke her neck, inhaling the comforting scent of animal and sweet hay while the trailer swings in a wide arc, the hitch squeaking and the diesel engine a comforting rumble. The driver gently accelerates onto the freeway.

Now, there’s nothing left to do but be still.

And stay ready.