I waited.
“Tel me you’re f**king joking,” he growled, his voice vibrating with anger.
Shit.
Bil y had gotten away.
I twisted my neck and pressed my forehead into his shoulder. My arm went around his waist and I held tight.
“Find him,” Hank said and flipped the phone shut.
“Whisky,” I whispered and even I could hear my voice held a tremor of fear.
“He’l get him,” Hank replied.
“Is Vance okay?” I asked.
“Flynn was gone when he got there. Trail’s hot though.
Vance is on it. Roxie, he’l get him.”
I swal owed.
He tossed the phone on the nightstand and both of his arms came around me.
“Relax, sweetheart. He’s not gonna hurt you,” Hank murmured.
I nodded and forced the tension from my body. I was able to do this mainly because I had help from Hank’s hand stroking my back.
After awhile, I fel asleep.
* * * * *
“He has no buttermilk.” My eyes slowly opened and I could see Hank’s throat in the dawn’s early light.
We were front-to-front, my thigh thrown over his hip, one of his arms resting lightly on my waist and mine was doing the same on his.
“Of course he doesn’t have buttermilk. Who has buttermilk?”
I blinked.
Mom and Dad were in the kitchen and I could hear them talking as if they were in the bedroom.
Hank’s house didn’t have thin wal s, it was just that my parents talked loudly.
“Wel , if he doesn’t have buttermilk, how’m I gonna make buttermilk pancakes?” Mom asked. “Sweet Jesus!” she cried. “He doesn’t have flour either!”
She said this as if it was a criminal offense.
“Of course he doesn’t have flour! Does he look like a man who bakes?” Dad said in a loud(er) voice.
I looked up Hank’s throat just as he tipped down his chin.
His eyes were open.
Damn.
He was awake.