Rogue - Michele Mannon Page 0,34

the ladder toward the light seeping through three holes punched into the manhole cover.

I reach the top, and with a sharp inhalation of relief, push up against the cover.

It doesn’t budge.

Balancing myself on the ladder, I try to lift it with both hands.

Shit. Oh shit.

My heart speeds up, racing harder than it had during my sprint. I bite my lip, thinking . . . thinking . . .

I remove the butter knife from the waist of my skirt and with a scowl, slice into the material. Cursing myself for not ordering a steak with fries and subsequently stealing a sharp steak knife instead of this worthless bit of metal. Impatient and growing more frantic by the moment, I jam my finger into the hole I’ve created and rip my skirt.

There we go.

Quickly, I remove the lid off the hydrogen peroxide and dip the long piece of boho cotton into the bottle, giving three-fourths of it a good soak before replacing the lid and dropping the bottle back into my satchel.

Wedging the soaked end into the space between the cover and the sidewalk, I then loop the soaked material into the three holes, careful to leave the dry end dangling free.

Risky. But whoever fired that bullet ruined any advantage I had. I’ve got to get out of here, pronto.

I light a match and hold the flame beneath the material until it takes.

Time to blow.

As fast as my legs can carry me, I retreat back down the ladder. Praying whoever is behind me hasn’t reached the ladder yet.

Halfway down, the manhole explodes. I throw myself against the side of the chute, my arms overhead blocking any falling debris.

But instead of debris, blessed light fills the chute.

Bingo, baby.

The ladder abruptly shakes.

I hear yelling—“I’m going to kill you”—in a thick accent. Big-Belly? But I don’t wait around to find out.

I haul ass back up the ladder. Ignoring how the ladder shakes from whoever is behind me. Mindless of my fear of not reaching the top before I’m overtaken. I focus on the defensive . . . if he grabs my ankle and attempts to pull me off the ladder, I’ll drop my satchel on his head. Sure, it’s only a few pounds at best, but hey, gravity is on my side.

To my relief, I reach sidewalk level. Hauling my body out of the manhole, I army-crawl forward, adjust the gun at my waist, and scramble to my knees.

“Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé?” the crowd gathered rumbles, worriedly.

Someone nudges my shoulder. “Tout va bien?”

My elderly nudger stares at me, disapprovingly. Reading right through the victim-of-circumstance act I’m projecting. Her arms fold across her body, expectantly. No matter the language barrier, her message is clear. I know it was you who blew up this hole. “Tout va bien?” she repeats, her tone harsh and full of reprimand. Yeah, I’ve been down this road before.

I plaster a faux smile on my face. Bien means well . . . is she asking me if I am well? “Just dandy.”

I will be, once I beat it the hell outta here.

“What happened?” the smaller man next to her asks, waving wildly at the smoky manhole and its mangled, twisted cover. This crowd is going to be in for the surprise of a lifetime when whoever’s following me pops his head up through the hole.

Time to go.

But first I address the concerned crowd. Pursing my lips together, I blow out my best rendition of a P-huff and shrug. “Oops. Pas le Metro.”

10

Shelby

Today’s word of the day is lick.

Lick, as in Jaxson’s promise to run his tongue over the sensitive skin behind my ear. Breaching the seam of my lips so we can do the tongue tango. Licking, sucking, nibbling my nipples, then with the tip, drawing a wet line across my abdomen and between my thighs. “Laying some loving on you,” or so he keeps murmuring to me with an irresistible devilish smirk.

Talk about verbal foreplay.

His naughty talk has my thoughts tapping out a steady drumbeat to that word. Lick. Lick. Lick. Lick. A mile or so into this morning’s maneuvering drill and I can’t seem to outmaneuver that word. Of all places and of all days, and I’m turned on like a Christmas tree.

In a short period of time, I’ve learned that Hayden isn’t a man to screw with, that Hell Camp is no joke, and that Jaxson, with his sexy, persistent, come-and-take-me-baby mouth, must be avoided at all costs. A tough task given that not only is he once again