Chapter 1
ONE
Thirty minutes into her shift at The Bare Minimum, Jessica Meeks was halfway through a routine she could probably do drunk, dead, or duct-taped to the pole.
The flickering pink-and-green neon lighting made everyone—strippers and patrons alike—look vaguely radioactive. Tonight, Jessica leaned into it, letting the lights blur the edges of her life for a while.
She hooked a knee around the pole out of habit, flipped her hair, and scanned the room without really seeing it. She'd seen that same room, or one very similar, a million times and it never changed. The men never changed, the music never changed, the routine never changed.
She never changed.
Until she spotted something glaringly out of place. Someone, actually.
He stood near the red EXIT sign, leaning the same way he had the first time she’d ever seen him, like his spine had been replaced with rebar. He was broad-shouldered, his forearms tan and veined. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt that somehow made him look more serious, not less.
Ryan Inglis. Just standing there. In a Corpus Christi strip club.
Jessica’s grip slipped fractionally. The pole squeaked. She caught herself before she could humiliate herself in front of a table of longshoremen celebrating Taco Tuesday like horny Vikings, but her heart had already dropped somewhere near her platforms.
She blinked, hard. But he didn’t vanish.
It had been two years with not a word from him. And now here he was, watching her dance like he’d taken a wrong turn on his way to buy milk.
She wrapped up the rest of the set with the enthusiasm of a woman filing her taxes. The customers barely noticed; most were drunk and the rest were too busy workshopping their midlife crises. When she stepped offstage, her hands were shaking so badly she had to squeeze them into fists.
Jessica shoved through the beaded curtain into backstage, where the air smelled like hairspray, cheap perfume, and weed. She was halfway into her top when she felt him behind her.
“Ma’am?”
Her whole spine locked up.
That word. That voice. That stupid, polite, maddeningly steady marshal voice.
She turned slowly, and there he was. He looked older around the eyes, but still infuriatingly handsome in a way that was not helpful for her blood pressure.
She folded her arms across her chest. “Are you kidding me?”
Ryan didn’t move. “I need a word.”
Jessica turned back to her locker. “Oh no. Nope. No way.” She grabbed her tote and slammed the door. “I'm not doing this again. I barely survived the first time.”
The first time. Two years ago, Deputy U.S.
Marshal Ryan Inglis had strolled into her strip club in Panama City Beach with a shiny badge, the same grim expression, and a warning that she was about to be swallowed whole by a cartel war she’d never meant to step into.
That time, her life had been in danger, but only because he’d made it so.
It had taken three days and a night trapped with him in a hurricane to figure that out, but not before she'd most inconveniently caught feelings for him.
She had long since recovered from those feelings.
And while she might have forgiven him for his past sins, especially after she’d discovered the real reason behind them—that the La Mano Negra gang had kidnapped his ex-wife, Kylie, and forced him to betray Jessica to keep her alive—that certainly didn’t make them square.
She turned back to face him. “So, what, you just woke up one day and thought, ‘Hey, I wonder how that girl who I nearly got killed is doing?’”
Ryan didn’t rise to the bait. Nor did his gaze drop below her collarbones, not even once. That was worse, honestly. Because it reminded her exactly what kind of man he was: disciplined, inconveniently honorable, and completely unable to stop trying to fix things that were already broken.
“Jessica,” he said quietly, “you’re in danger.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, wow. Really? Is that why you tracked me down at—” she gestured around with both hands “—the classiest establishment in south Texas?”
“Yes,” he said. “And not soon enough.”
Something tightened low in her stomach. It was instinct more than fear.
“People have been asking about you. People who shouldn’t know your name.”
The moisture left Jessica’s throat. “Who?”
Other than a quick flicker of his eyes, he didn’t answer.
“Get dressed,” he said instead. “We need to leave. Now.”
Jessica shoved past him. “I'm not falling for that again.”
He moved aside, but only just, like he knew perfectly well she’d graze his arm and was daring her not to react.
She didn’t.
He let her dig for her clothes for exactly four seconds before he spoke again. “They know you’re in Texas.”
Her hands froze inside the bag. “Who?” she asked, without turning.
“Jessica.”
“Who?” she repeated, sharper.
He exhaled, long and frustrated. “You know exactly who. La Mano Negra.”
She shook her head. “You don’t get to walk in here and tell me how to live my life.”
“I’m trying to keep you alive,” he said, following.
She spun on him so fast her hair slapped her cheek.
“Why? Why now? You didn’t care enough to check in before. Not a text. Not even a goddamned postcard from whatever cactus you were hiding behind.”
He closed his eyes briefly, like he was assembling patience one reluctant piece at a time. When he opened them again, they were darker, more determined.
“I didn’t contact you,” he said, “because I didn’t want to drag you back into my mess. And because it didn’t feel like it was my place. But things have changed. Your name surfaced. Dante’s too.”
The air went thin around her. “Dante,” she whispered.
Ryan nodded once.
She tried to swallow, but her throat felt wrapped in barbed wire. Instead, she focused on yanking the red sequin dress over her head and arms. “He’s fine. He’s in Agua Dulce. Working. Living a normal life. He’s out of that world.”
Dante Cruz—Daniel Castano, as she’d once known him—-had been her first real love, long before she understood how dangerous his world truly was.
They’d made a pact to get out together, and then WITSEC had torn them apart before they even had the chance.
She hadn’t even known he was still alive until a few years ago.
“There's been a lot that's happened in the last six months. Cartel informants have said that things are starting to shake loose. Names that were safe aren’t safe anymore.”
Jessica’s knees felt like water. She backed into a vanity, knocking a can of hairspray to the floor. “So, what? You want me to just leave? Walk out of my job, my life, everything, because you what? Felt like playing hero again?”
He stepped closer. “You think I’d come all this way for a hunch? Jessica, you are in danger. Real danger. And your best chance at staying alive is by listening to me.”
Her heart thudded painfully. “Ryan,” she said, softer now, “I can’t just disappear again.”
“You can,” he said. “And you will.”
The heat flared back up her spine. “Oh, we are not doing that,” she snapped. “You don’t get to ‘ma’am’ me into submission. That worked when I was terrified and running from a deranged cartel hitman and you were the only person between me and a shallow grave. But I’m not her anymore.”
He studied her a moment. “Good. Because terrified Jessica was easy to hunt down. This one might stand a chance.”
The words punched through her and she hesitated.
He saw it and moved in for the finish. “Five minutes,” he said. “Finishing getting dressed. I’ll explain outside.”
“No.”
His brows lifted. “No?”
She stepped back. “I’m not leaving with you.”
He stared at her like she had announced gravity was optional. “You’re refusing protection?”
“I’m refusing being run out of my life again.”
Ryan dragged a hand through his hair, muttering something under his breath that sounded a lot like a prayer. Or a curse. It was hard to tell with him.
And then he said the exact words guaranteed to make her blood boil: “Ma’am, you’re being unreasonable.”
She threw a heel at him.
He dodged. Barely.
“That the best you’ve got?” he asked, breath steady.
“No,” she said. “And you know it’s not.”
He continued to survey her calmly. Now that she was dressed—mostly—he allowed his eyes to travel below her collarbone. Not in a lascivious way; Ryan didn’t do that. But in a way that still made her feel uncomfortably studied.
“What happened to the plan?” he asked.
She shrugged one shoulder. “What plan?”
“Dance therapy. You were going to get qualified in it. Said it was your dream. Not…” he gestured vaguely at the room around him, “this line of work again.”
She crossed her arms over her chest but said nothing.
“You promised, if I recall correctly.”
“Yeah, well, I also thought I was probably going to die before we found civilization after that hurricane, so I guess it was easy to make promises back then.”
She was lying, and they both knew it. Her dream of dance therapy had died the moment she realized her “happily ever after” with Dante in Agua Dulce was a hollowed-out shell of what they once had. Dance therapy now felt about as far off a dream as running for president. Or getting back with Dante.
Ryan dropped his voice to a low, serious rumble, bringing her back to the present issue. “Jessica. They are coming for you. If you stay here, you won’t survive.”
She opened her mouth—to argue, to lie, to insist she wasn’t afraid. But fear flickered anyway. He saw it. Of course he fucking did.
He stepped aside, giving her a clear path to the back door. “This isn’t a request. Come with me.”
Jessica glanced at the door. At her locker. At the life she had once again stitched together from sequins and scraps. And then she looked at him. “No. I’m not leaving with you.”
Ryan’s jaw set. “Then I’ll find Dante,” he said. “And he’ll make you listen.”
Jessica’s breath caught. “You wouldn’t.”
He was already walking away. “Try me,” he said, without looking back.