3. Marlowe
MARLOWE
Stealing a box of protein bars from the market officially makes me a petty criminal.
I sit on a weathered green park bench at the edge of town, staring down at my knees, my stomach churning with a mix of guilt and sheer, exhausting desperation.
I’ve never stolen a thing in my life. Back in Denver, even when the power was cut and the cupboard had nothing but a bag of stale rice, I worked three jobs to keep myself honest. But yesterday, standing in that aisle with four dollars to my name and my gut cramping with hunger, my brain just short-circuited.
I will pay them back. The very second I get a paycheck, I’m sliding twenty bucks under the market’s front door.
My phone buzzes in my coat pocket, the harsh vibration making me jump a mile high.
I pull it out, my chest tightening as the screen lights up with a contact name: Soraya.
My breath hitches. Soraya is the only person from home I still talk to.
We grew up in the same bleak, run-down trailer park, surviving the same crime-riddled neighborhood where cops only showed up after the damage was already done.
I swipe the screen and press the phone to my ear. "Tell me you're calling to say you won the lottery and you're buying us an island."
"Marlowe," Soraya’s sharp, frantic tone cuts straight through the receiver. It’s in such contrast to her normally soft, sweet voice. "Where are you? Are you safe?"
"I’m fine," I assure her, leaning back against the bench and forcing every drop of tension out of my voice.
I tilt my head toward the blue sky, letting a fake, easy laugh spill out.
"Currently sunbathing in mountain paradise. It’s very rustic.
Very Sound of Music. I half expect a goat to wander by and offer me fresh milk. "
"Don't bullshit me," she snaps.
My eyebrows nearly fly off my forehead when I hear her swear. Soraya is… pure in a way that’s hard to describe. Has she seen drug deals and drive-bys? Yes. Has she had the cops called on her parents for domestic disputes? Yes. Does she still say “The F-Word” in place of fuck? Also yes.
"The guys from the loan ring must have broken into your old place. They somehow found my contact info, even after my cross-country move to the Pacific Northwest, and wanted me to relay a message. They know you ran. They sound terrifying, Marlowe, and they’re looking everywhere for you."
Cold ice trickles down my blood, but I keep my tone bubbly, my defense shield snapping instantly into place.
"Well, good luck to them! I’m practically a ghost now.
A very cute, mysterious ghost. Look, I’m working on a lead for a job right now.
I’ll call you the second I have actual good news to share, okay? "
"Marlowe, don't you dare hang up—"
"Love you, bye!" I end the call before she can lecture me, squeezing my eyes shut as a single tremor passes through my hands. They’re looking for me.
"You're hard to find."
The deep, gravelly bark cuts through the quiet park like a gunshot. I whip my head around, my phone nearly flying out of my hand.
The giant, grumpy, growly man from yesterday is standing five feet behind my bench.
He looks even bigger than he did on the sidewalk, his massive frame clad in a dark gray thermal shirt that hugs every ridge of his absurdly thick chest and arms. His jaw is set in that familiar scowl, dark blue eyes boring into mine like he's trying to see right through my skull.
My heart hits my throat. For a second, my primitive brain screams that he's one of them—an enforcer sent to haul me back to Denver. But then I see the faded scar along his jaw, the raw, suffocating intensity in his stare… and that strange, inexplicable heat flares back to life in my belly.
I shove my phone into my pocket, smoothing down my shirt and slapping on a blinding smile. "You know, normal people usually start conversations with 'hello' or 'nice weather we're having,' not creeping up on women like a mountain lion stalking a stray sheep."
He doesn't smile. He doesn't even blink. He steps around the bench, taking up so much space that the park suddenly feels tiny.
"I heard you were looking for work," he grunts, his voice low, command-laced, and totally unyielding.
I blink, taken aback. "Word travels fast in a town of twenty people. Did the local pigeons tell you?"
"I need an assistant at FCMC," Kane says, crossing his thick, tree-trunk arms over his chest. He towers over me, his shadow completely blotting out the sun. "You start today. Cash pay. Under the table."
My mouth opens, then closes. Cash. Immediate money. It’s a lifeline thrown right into my drowning face, but the way he’s demanding it, like he’s drafting me into a private army, makes my feisty, independent streak flare hot.
"Is that how you offer people jobs?" I ask, throwing my legs over the side of the bench, rising to my feet, and crossing my arms to mirror his exact stance.
I have to throw my head back just to look him in the eye.
"Because it sounded suspiciously like a kidnapping threat wrapped in an employment offer. "
"It's an offer," he rumbles.
"Right. Well, as tempting as it is to spend eight hours a day being glared at by a man who looks like he eats barbed wire for breakfast, we’d be an absolute disaster as a team. I don’t even know your name." I flash a sweet, fake smile.
“Kane. Langston. Owner of FCMC.”
“What exactly is FCMC? Abbreviated corporations always give me culty vibes.”
“Forge Creek Municipal Contractors.”
“That’s a mouthful. You should consider using some kind of shorthand for that,” I tease.
Kane’s left eye twitches, and for a moment, I think he might roll his eyes at me. At least that would be some sort of acknowledgment of my wit and charm. But, no, it appears the twitch is out of annoyance, not fighting the urge to belly-laugh.
"So…” I continue, not sure how to move this conversation along. “What exactly does this job entail?"
"Secretary work," he barks.
The word hits me like a tiny slap. My jaw tightens.
"Secretary?" I tilt my head, letting a sharp, sarcastic edge bite through my cheerful tone.
"Oh, I see. The blonde girl rolls into town and suddenly her only value is filing your paperwork and making sure your coffee is hot?
Just because I have curves and a bright smile doesn't mean I'm only capable of sitting behind a desk, looking pretty, and answering your phone calls while you go play with heavy machinery, Big Boy. "
I’m breathing heavily by the time I finish my rant, my chest heaving, standing toe-to-toe with a man twice my size who could knock me over with his pinky.
Kane doesn't flinch. He absorbs every drop of my fire, his dark eyes tracking the flushed rise of my cheeks and the stubborn set of my jaw. His jaw flexes, his hand coming up to rub the scar on his face.
Silence stretches between us, thick, heavy, and charged with an unbearable tension.
"You got a commercial driver's license?" he asks calmly, his voice dropping an octave.
"What?" I blink. "No."
"You certified in arc welding or heavy equipment maintenance?"
I press my lips into a thin line. "No."
"Then you're managing my desk," Kane says bluntly.
I huff out an embarrassed, frustrated breath, looking away.
Dammit. He has a point, but I hate that he made it so easily.
I stand there, shifting my weight, the silence stretching out like a pulled wire.
Every instinct I have tells me to walk away from this terrifying, overbearing brute.
But underneath the bossy commands and the dark glare, something in my chest wants to stay.
He makes me hot, bothered, flustered, and... strangely, impossibly grounded.
"Why me?" I ask, dropping the bubbly sarcasm for a split second. "You don't know me. You clearly don't even like me. So why are you standing here offering me cash to work for you?"
For the first time since I met him, Kane is the one who looks flustered.
His dark blue eyes widen slightly. His throat works as he swallows hard. He opens his mouth, stops, clears his throat with a rough grunt, and tries again. "It's... the yard needs... paperwork is a mess."
He stops short, a subtle, dark flush rising beneath his stubble.
A massive, genuine grin breaks across my face. The unflappable mountain man is flapped. Is that a thing? He’s certainly out of his depth, which intrigues me.
"Oh, look at that," I giggle, stepping a fraction closer and tapping my chest in mock triumph. "The big, bad construction boss is speechless. Looks like I win this round."
Before he can recover, my phone rings again in my pocket. The loud, cheerful chime cuts through the air like a blade. I pull it out, and the smile instantly dies on my face.
An unknown Denver number.
The blood drains from my face so fast the park seems to tilt.
My stomach drops through the floor. They found my number.
Soraya was right. They know I'm on the run, and now they know the number to my burner phone. It won’t be long until they find out where I live.
Panic rises up my throat, thick and suffocating, threatening to choke me right where I stand.
"What's wrong?" Kane's voice is instantly different. It’s no longer gruff, but sharp and dangerously low. He takes a heavy step closer, his body instinctively positioning itself between me and the open street. "Who’s that?"
I force my thumb to swipe the screen off, shoving the phone deep into my pocket. I take a shaky breath, close my eyes for a fraction of a second, and drag every ounce of horror down into the dark basement of my mind.
When I open my eyes, I plaster the smile back on. Bright. Bubbly. Fake.
"Nothing at all!" My voice is pitched a little too high, a little too sweet. "Just spam! Wrong number! Well, as lovely as this hostage negotiation for employment has been, Kane, I really must be going."
I turn on my heel, my legs trembling so hard I’m amazed I don’t fall flat on my face. I march away as fast as my feet can carry me, my head spinning, my lungs fighting for air.
When I reach the edge of the park, I can't help myself. I glance over my shoulder.
Kane is still standing by the bench. He hasn't moved an inch. He's staring after me, his massive shoulders tense, his dark blue eyes filled with an agonizing mixture of confusion, anger, and devastation. He looks completely lost.
A sharp tug pulls at my heart, lingering long after I turn the corner and leave him behind.