44. Ransom
44
RANSOM
“ R ansom.”
Warm breath on my skin. The weight of his body on mine. The press of Everett’s lips on my throat. One kiss. Then another. Each kiss firm. Demanding. A mark on my throat that doesn’t leave even when his lips pull back.
He whispers against my skin, “ Dragonfly .”
Claiming me with his words. His mouth. Lips turn into teeth. The sharp scrape of teeth grazes the hollow of my throat. I hear myself moan and arch back, tilting my chin upward, inviting him closer.
Hell. Not inviting. Begging. Begging with my body. Begging for more.
“ Riley Ransom .”
His voice is loud now. It punctures through my thoughts and jolts my eyes open.
A dream.
I’m dreaming.
Was dreaming .
Now, I’m wide-awake, sweat cold on my back, morning wood tenting the sheets.
Everett doesn’t flinch. He’s dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed. He has an earbud pinched in his fingers, the one he must’ve plucked out of my ear to wake me up. “Good. You’re up.”
“Yep. Huh. What. I’m up.”
Sure am .
Everett is back to black. Black pants. A black button-up shirt. Freshly shaved. Clothes without a single crease. He laces his shoes up tightly into neat, little bows.
I sit up, pull up my knees, and rub my hand roughly over my face. I clear a tumbleweed out of my throat. “Where’s Claire?”
“That’s the question of the hour. She was gone when I woke up. But she left this.”
He lifts a letter off the bedside table and drops it in my lap. When I read it, my blood goes from hot to cold real quick.
The note just says: I’m sorry. I have to finish this.
On the front is an invite, pronouncing Claire this year’s Belleflower Queen.
“The Belleflower Festival. Shit. You don’t think she?—?”
“Yes.” Everett’s voice is coiled tight, like a spring ready to unload.
“But she knows they’re dangerous.”
“Yes. And when has that ever stopped someone as stubborn as Claire from getting what she wants?”
“Good point.”
Alright. I’m up.
I leap out of bed, grab my jeans off the floor, and tug them on.
There’s a lot buzzing around my brain. The way the three of us tangled last night. The Belleflower Festival today. The dream this morning.
But I’ve gotta flick it away. Because there’s only one thing that matters.
Find Claire. Keep that woman safe. Even if I’ve gotta hog-tie her and drag her home to do it.
A shadow falls over me. I glance up midway through pulling on my boots. Everett is standing over me. He’s got a man-purse over his shoulder and an open palm in front of me.
“You have something that belongs to me,” he says.
Huh? Oh, right?—
I pluck out the right ear pod and hand it over. “Thanks.”
He takes it from me, rubs it clean with a small square cloth, and then pops it back into his ear.
One of his many weird habits that I would’ve found annoying twenty-four hours ago. Now? It’s kinda charming.
Anyway.
I pull on a shirt and tuck a handkerchief around my throat. As we walk downstairs, Everett asks, “What does yellow mean?”
I touch the handkerchief on my neck. “For good luck.”
“Good. We’ll need it.”
My body craves coffee, pancakes, and aftercare. Instead, I get?—
Everett’s hand on my chest. Stopping me before we exit. His firm touch stops me in my tracks.
“One last thing,” Everett says. He reaches into his man-purse and takes out a gun. He hands it over. “Take this.”
“No, thank you.”
Those eyebrows scrunch together. “What do you mean?”
How do I explain this to a killing robot? I try: “You ever watch The Lone Ranger ? ”
“What?”
“Every Sunday at 2:00 p.m. They play it on the Turner Classics.”
“Alright.”
“He never kills people. The good guys don’t kill. They always just knock them out.”
His lips thin. “Do you know jiujitsu?”
“No, but?—”
“Krav Maga?”
“Well, no?—”
“Kung fu?”
“C’mon…”
“Take the gun. If it’s Claire’s life or theirs, you’ll wish you had it.”
He tries to force it at me again, but I lift my palms. “There’s always another choice.”
“Maybe in the movies.”
I clasp my hand on my shoulder and guide him around so we’re both facing the mirror. “I want you to look at yourself,” I tell him, “and then look at me.” The contrast is stark. Everett in his dark clothes and tall hunch. Me in soft leather with a bright spot of color where my yellow handkerchief collars my throat. I touch his shoulder. “ Outlaw ,” I say, naming him. Then I pat my own chest. “ Hero .”
Everett scowls at our reflections, which really just proves my point.
Only outlaws scowl.
“You carry the gun.” I give him a pat on the back. “And I’ll just?—”
“Stand there and look pretty?”
“Find another way.”
He slips his gun back into his holster. I can feel him stewing. I push out the door and step outside. We’re met with a crowd, and I’ve got to blink against the burst of sun to readjust.
Three cars outside. All police. Sheriff Holden stands out front, a grim look on his face.
Relief spreads through my veins. I lift my hands. “That’s what I’m talking about!” I say. “We’ve got backup!” I smack Everett on the chest. “See? Told you it would work out.”
But he’s stiff. “Riley,” he says, “I don’t think?—”
“Sheriff Holden!” I clip down the steps, arms outstretched. “You’ve got no idea how good it is to see you.”
“Wish I could say the same,” Sheriff Holden grunts. Then he takes his gun out of his side holster and points it at me. “Hands up. You’re under arrest for the murder of Randall Preacher.”
“Holden, what?—?”
I don’t get it out before Officer West comes up behind me. He slams me up against the hood of the car. The hood is hot against my cheek, and I feel my arms yanked behind me before a pair of cuffs gets snapped on my wrists.
“Son of a…bitch…”
I watch as Everett puts his hands behind his back and they snap cuffs on him, too.
His eyes meet mine. Those blues are looking at me like this is all my fault.
Now, how the heck is this my ?—?