Chapter Two
Bones
“Target is in the next aisle over,” Spike says through my earpiece, low and calm like always. I grunt my acknowledgment and keep walking.
The supermarket smells like overly ripe bananas and chemicals. Annoyingly cheerful music plays over the speakers. I hate this place. Too many people. Too many smells. Too damn cheerful. And worst of all…
She works here.
I haven’t seen her yet, but the second I walked through the doors, my stomach did that weird twist thing like it knew . Stupid gut. Stupid memory. Stupid damn Pop-Tart aisle.
I spot the mark. Josh something. Works stock in the back. We’ve been watching him for a few weeks now, ever since one of our suppliers tipped us off to a local leak. Josh is twitchy, nervous, always looking over his shoulder.
He’s mid-conversation with another employee, back turned, jacket draped over the large cart holding unopened boxes behind him. My window.
I keep my pace steady. Nothing suspicious. Just a guy in a hoodie and jeans, shopping for canned soup with a face full of scars and a reputation for violence.
“Got eyes on the jacket,” I murmur under my breath. “Moving in.”
I turn, grab a can of chili, and wait for the opening.
Then…there she is.
She bounces into view from the far end of the aisle like the goddamn personification of a sugar rush. Ponytail swinging, smile brighter than the fluorescent lights. She’s laughing with a customer, probably convincing them to buy chocolate syrup “just in case.”
And I freeze.
Not like full-body-paralysis freeze. Just… pause. Like my brain trips over itself for a second and forgets what mission I’m on.
She catches sight of me and does a double-take. And then…damn it all…she waves.
I look away immediately, shoving the can into my basket with unnecessary force.
“Tracker’s in,” I say quickly, slipping the tiny device into the coat pocket in one smooth motion. “I’m out.”
“Copy that,” Spike responds.
I should leave. I should . But I hesitate. And that hesitation is all she needs.
Suddenly she’s there, wheeling her cart right into my path like it’s fate. Or a setup. Or punishment from God for whatever sins I haven’t atoned for. Which are many.
“Well, if it isn’t Darth Brooder,” she says, resting her arms on the cart handle. “Back for more philosophical breakfast pastry debates? I mean, not that you actually responded to my pop-tart suggestion, but it really is a solid choice of snackage.”
I stare at her. Blank. Cold. Silent.
She grins wider. “Still mysterious. I like that. Adds to the whole ‘might be a hitman, might just really hate mornings’ vibe you’ve got going on.”
“What do you want?” I ask flatly.
Her nose scrunches. “Rude. But okay. I just thought it was nice seeing a familiar scary face. You know, in case the frozen peas stage a coup.”
I shake my head and move to walk past her.
“Hey,” she says, more gently this time. “You okay? You look like you’ve been through a war zone.”
My footsteps stop on their own. It’s not the question. It’s the way she asks it. Like she actually means it. Like she actually sees me.
I turn back just a little. “I don’t do friendly chit-chat.”
She shrugs. “Cool. I do enough for both of us. Heck, I talk enough for the whole world.”
I let out a breath. Might be a laugh. Might be exhaustion. Could be gas. Either way, she beams like she won a prize.
“My name is Sunny,” she says, holding out a hand. “Well, it’s actually Suzannah, but nobody calls me that. Not even my mama when she’s mad. I’ve been Sunny since the second grade when I got detention for telling my teacher the clouds looked sad and I wanted to go outside and cheer them up.”
Bones.
That’s what I should say. That’s all she needs to know.
But instead, what comes out is, “…Jack.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Like, a real name? Wow. I’m honored. Should I curtsy or something?”
I snort. Damn it.
She beams like I just handed her a winning lottery ticket.
“Jack,” she says, testing it out. “It suits you. Tough guy name but not like… serial killer tough. More like ‘rescues puppies when no one’s looking’ tough.”
I arch an eyebrow. “I don’t do puppies.”
“Oh, come on.” She leans on her cart like we’re old friends. “Even the Terminator probably liked golden retrievers.”
I shake my head, trying not to smile. And I fail. Just a little.
She sees it. Her grin gets smug like she just scored a point in a game I didn’t know we were playing.
“I should go,” I mumble, backing up.
“Right,” she says, pushing her cart aside to let me pass. “Well, it was nice chatting with you, Jack. Try not to brood so hard. You’ll get frown lines.”
“Too late.”
I walk away before I say something stupid. Like, I remembered your laugh. Or I bought damn Pop-Tarts because of you. Or worse… I want to hear you say my name again.
I make it outside, past the doors, into the cool air that still feels too hot after being near her. My bike is parked a block away. Didn’t want to be obvious. Didn’t want to be recognized.
Didn’t want her to see it and ask me what kind of guy rides a machine built for violence and freedom.
The comm in my ear crackles. Spike. “Tracker’s active. Good work.”
“Copy,” I say, voice flat.
“Head back to the compound, brother. Foster has news.”
I twist the throttle and make my way back home. Sunny’s face pops into my head and I shove it right back out. The last thing I need in my life is someone like her. Someone who doesn’t know the cruelty of the world. Someone who could be ruined by my darkness.
I don’t belong in Sunny’s world and she sure as hell doesn’t belong in mine.
***
“Bones, do you want something to eat?”
I glance over at Riley and shake my head. “I’m good.”
“Let me know if you change your mind,” she says. “Everyone’s in the war room.”
With a nod, I head that way.
Things have changed since Riley moved in. Spike seems more relaxed, which I’m grateful for. It’s a full-time job keeping that man alive. Even more so when he has nothing to live for. Thankfully, he has a family now and doesn’t make stupid life-risking choices anymore.
“Josh isn’t our guy,” Foster says before I can find a seat.
“He was jittery as hell,” I say, falling into a chair. “Kept looking over his shoulder and couldn’t seem to focus on his job.”
“Still not our guy,” Foster shrugs.
“He is selling,” Spike adds. “And we’ll have to fix that. But, he isn’t the one in charge.”
“Then who the hell is hiring these dealers to sell Fentanyl?”
“With the tracker in place,” Foster says. “I can track his dealing locations and maybe we’ll get some more answers.”
Three people have died in the last month from Fentanyl overdose. Any dealer in Palm Springs knows we don’t want that shit on our streets but someone decided to risk their lives and sell anyway.
We’d rather have no dealers, but there’s only so much we can control. However, we’ve made it pretty fucking clear to those who sell behind our backs that Fentanyl is too fucking dangerous and if we find out it’s being sold on our streets, we’ll be dealing with the dealer, ourselves.
“It’s Billy,” Spike says, voice like stone. “I told my cousin I didn’t want that shit here and he was pissed. I’ll bet anything it’s him.”
“We’ve been staking out Marv’s Market, as well as several other businesses for a month now and I haven’t seen Billy,” I remind them. “If he is involved, he’s playing smart and using random dealers.”
The last person who landed in the hospital told the police that they didn’t see the dealer’s face, but that they did the deal at the back of Marv’s parking lot. Probably Josh.
Foster’s fingers drum against the table. “Well, whoever it is, they’re getting sloppy. With the police and hospital files I’ve borrowed, each victim that’s survived has given the location of their deal. It’s only a matter of time before facial description or even a name is given.”
“ Borrowed ?” Skip says, brows raised.
“Sooner or later, they’ll slip,” Spike says. “We wait. Watch. Catch them in the act.”
Patience isn’t exactly my strong suit. The longer this drags out, the more I find my thoughts drifting to things that don’t belong in a war room. Like the sound of Sunny’s laugh when she called me Jack . Like the way her smile lights up even the worst aisle in that godforsaken store.
Spike’s eyes land on me. “Bones, I want you to keep watching Marv’s. Report anything strange. You’re not off the clock yet.”
I swallow the urge to argue. “Got it.”
“I had Foster run background on all of Marv’s employees,” Skip says, smirking. “Heard Sunny talking to you while you were there. Want to know more about her?”
“Not interested.”
“Oh, I love her,” Riley chimes in from the doorway. “Last week Abby and I talked to her for like an hour before her boss told her to get back to work. She’s so sweet.”
“And she always has the cutest outfits,” Abby says, stepping in with Asher on her hip. “If I had her body, I’d wear them too. Curves in all the right places. I’d love to design something for her.”
She hands the baby off to Spike with a smile. “Anyway, here’s your son, bubby. Riley and I are going to paint my front door. Don’t want this little guy breathing in paint fumes.”
“You pick a color yet?” Tank asks.
“And don’t say pink,” Skip adds, visibly horrified.
“Light purple,” Riley laughs. “But we’re doing dark purple accents. Not sure what those accents are going to be, though. Maybe flowers. It’s going to look so pretty.”
“Then we’re painting Riley and Spike’s door the same way,” Abby says, already halfway out of the room. “But teal with purple accents. If any of you want your doors done, just let us know.”
As the girls disappear out the door, Skip leans back in his chair, eyeing me like a cat who’s spotted a mouse with a limp.
“Sooo,” he says, drawing the word out like he’s tasting it. “Did you think Sunny was pretty?”
I don’t answer. I just stare at the table like it’s gonna sprout a map to the best place to bury a body.
“C’mon, man,” Skip grins. “She’s got that whole curvy, girl-next-door thing going on. Always smiling. Always happy. Kinda surprised you didn’t flirt.”
“I don’t flirt,” I mutter.
“Right. You just glare and grunt at women until they fall into bed with you.”
I say nothing.
Skip’s grin widens like he’s just figured out how to poke a bear and live. “Huh. Maybe I’ll swing by Marv’s and ask her out myself. See if she’s free Friday.”
It takes everything in me not to pull my gun out and shoot him in the leg.
I clench my jaw instead. No twitch. No reaction. Not even a blink. Just deadpan calm while my brain helpfully supplies an image of Sunny on a date, with Skip of all people, laughing at one of his dumb jokes.
The table creaks under my hands before I realize I’m gripping the edge too hard.
“Spike,” I say, my voice flat as asphalt, “we done here?”
Spike nods slowly, eyes flicking between me and Skip like he’s not sure if a fistfight’s about to break out or not.
“We’re done,” he says.
I push back from the table, stand, and head out without another word. My boots echo through the hallway as I leave the war room behind and head toward my place; one of the fifteen houses tucked inside the compound’s large perimeter.
It’s quiet out here. Peaceful. Not that peace does me much good right now. Not with the way my pulse is still hammering, or the ghost of Sunny’s voice still in my ears.
Skip’s lucky I like him.
Barely.