“You’re mine. Means you’re Chaos. Getting this guy is good for you. Means he did us a good turn.”
“Oh,” I mumbled again, though I did it feeling warm and fuzzy he was considering me “his” and that I was “Chaos.”
“I liked hating his ass better.”
“No one is all good or all bad, Rush,” I said quietly.
“Says Rebel Stapleton, protector of just about anyone who crosses her path,” he returned. “Though just to say, my guess is Wayne Benson is total filth.”
I could not argue that.
He fell silent.
“You want—?” I started to offer.
“Fuckin’ kills me to say,” he cut me off. “But I’m worn out. I’ll go at you in the morning.”
He hadn’t had a lot of sleep.
“Need to take care of you better,” I muttered.
He kissed the top of my head. “You take care of me fine.”
“I’ll make breakfast in the morning.”
“You keep promising to cook, this has yet to happen.”
“I kill in the kitchen,” I bragged. “I’ll make my egg and bacon sandwiches on cheesy buttermilk biscuits. We tell D I’m making them, he’ll be his normal half-asleep, and he’ll still get in his rental to go get the ingredients if we don’t have them.”
“Sounds perfect.”
I smiled, pressed close, brushed his skin with my lips, then turned in his hold so he was spooning me.
He gave me some weight at the back, tucked my hips tighter into curve of his and buried his face in my hair.
Oh so totally awesome with the spoon.
I was almost back to sleep, Rush’s breath had evened, when a low, ragged groan split the air.
Diesel.
My eyes popped open. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Rush’s arm got tight and he chuckled into my hair.
“I’m gonna kill them,” I announced.
“Just chill.”
“You need your sleep.”
Rush said nothing. There was silence. No bed pounding. No grunting.
Okay, maybe D was just making really loud sleep noises.
“Yeah, bud, that’s it. Love that draw. Suck me,” Diesel could be heard encouraging.
“For fuck’s sake,” I snapped, lifting up my head, seizing my pillow, dropping my head to the mattress and slamming the pillow over me.
Rush’s body rocked into mine with his laughter.
My “Men!” was muted too.
Rush’s body kept rocking into mine.
Whatever.
The pillow worked.
And around about the time Rush relaxed into me, I fell asleep.
Chew
Four forty- five that morning . . .
Dragging the bags up the stairs, Chew checked the numbers on the doors as he went down the outside walkway until he saw fourteen.
He used the key with the big, diamond-shaped, plastic medallion that had the same number imprinted on it, let himself in, dragging the bags behind him.
He closed the door.
Locked it.
Went to the curtains hanging at the front window.
He slapped them closed.
Only then did he feel his way to the light on the nightstand and turn it on.
He went back to the three plastic bags, heaved them across the room and up on the bed.
Then he stood there, staring down at them, feeling his whole body shaking.
How?
How did they know?
How did they find him?
Going home after his work of the night, feeling good, feeling fucking awesome he hadn’t lost his touch.
A little time staking shit out. A little more time watching.
Two liquor stores and a convenience store.
This time, he didn’t leave them dead since they didn’t even see the tire iron before it slammed into the backs of their skulls.
They’d have headaches when they woke up, and Chew had some mild concern that last guy was bleeding more than he should.
But whatever.
He got their cash bags.
Their daily takes.
And thank fuck he kept his stash in his car. If he didn’t, now he’d be screwed.
Fuck.
How had the cops found him? All over his safe house when he got home. Lights flashing. That fucking do-good fuckwad Mitch Lawson and that fucking asshole ex-DEA fuck Brock Lucas standing at the front of his safe house chatting.
Tack’s friends.
Tack’s buddies.
Chew did not give one single fuck those men were at Tack’s side when they took the house where Tack’s old lady was inside, stuck to shit, bleeding out.
They were fucking cops.
Tack was an outlaw.
What the fuck?
More importantly . . .
How had they fucking fuck fucking found him?
He stared at the bags.
Grew still.
“Digger,” he whispered.
The only motherfucker alive, now that Harrietta and Cammy were dead, who knew where his safe house was.
He turned, about ready to grab the TV and throw it across the room.
Instead he skulked to it, snatched up the remote, turned that fucker on low so if he had neighbors in this shithole,