Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
My life has always had a certain… chaotic rhythm. But this? This is jazz played with a flamethrower.
The SUV hums under me as Rainmaker’s road climbs into the hills—winding, narrow, the kind of route that makes you feel like you’re leaving civilization on purpose. The trees thicken. The air changes. The moon hangs low and bright like it’s watching.
Beside me, Salem is quiet. She’s silent in a way that feels deliberate. Like if she stops listening, the world might get her. Her hands are wrapped around a cup of soda like it’s the only thing anchoring her. She ate like she hadn’t tasted real food in years, and I had to look away a couple times because it hit too hard—watching someone devour normalcy with shaking fingers. Now she stares out the window, jaw set, eyelashes casting shadows on her cheek.
And I can’t stop replaying it. Her voice, casual like she was asking the time. Are you a… toys guy? My brain still doesn’t know what to do with that. My body knows exactly what to do with it, which is deeply unhelpful.
I keep my eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, while my mind runs the highlight reel on a loop like it’s determined to ruin me.
The neon sign.
Her laugh.
The syrup on her fingertips.
The way she looked at me when she asked that question—like she was daring me to be honest. Like she was testing whether I’d flinch. And the worst part? I didn’t. I answered. Yeah. One word. Quiet. Real. Now the cab is full of all the things that word implies, and we’re both pretending it isn’t. Because she’s been through hell.
Because I’m supposed to be professional.
Because I’m driving a woman to a safehouse, not to a bedroom.
And yet my mouth still tastes like the idea of her.
I glance at her, carefully. “Hey,” I say softly, breaking the silence before it turns into something heavier.
Her eyes flick to me, alert.
“You good?” I ask.
A beat. Then she lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Define good.”
“Not starving,” I say. “Not bleeding. Not back in that building.”
Her throat moves as she swallows. “Then… yeah.” She looks away again fast, like she doesn’t want to show the cracks.
I grip the wheel a little tighter. Professional. Focused. Mission. Rainmaker comes into view ten minutes later. It’s tucked into the hills like a secret somebody paid to keep. A long, low structure with dark wood siding, big windows that reflect the night instead of spilling light, and a wraparound porch that makes it look like it could be a cozy vacation rental if you didn’t know it was designed for people who need to disappear.
Dean said it’s fully stocked.
The driveway crunches under the tires. I kill the engine, and silence settles around us—just wind through trees, distant night sounds, the soft tick of cooling metal.
Salem’s gaze tracks the house, measuring it. “Is it… safe?” she asks, voice tight.
“As safe as we can make it,” I say. “Camera perimeter. Motion sensors. No close neighbors. And nobody knows you’re here except the people you saw at HQ.”
She nods, but she doesn’t look convinced. I don’t blame her.
I get out first, circling to her side. When I open the door, cold air slips inside. She steps down onto the gravel.
I grab the duffel from the trunk, then the bag of food trash Salem shoved into a corner. She reaches for it too, like she’s determined not to be a burden.
I block her with my shoulder gently. “I’ve got it.”
Her eyes flash. “I can carry a bag.”
“I know,” I say. “Let me do something for you without you fighting me like I’m your enemy.” That lands.
Her mouth opens, then closes. She exhales through her nose. “Fine.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, and lead her toward the porch.
Inside, Rainmaker is warm. Quiet. The air smells faintly like cedar and clean linens. Lights come on automatically as we enter, motion-activated, soft and low. There’s a living room with a deep couch, a worn leather chair, a big coffee table. A kitchen that looks too normal—pots, plates, a fruit bowl like someone’s trying to pretend this is just a weekend getaway.
A hallway leads to two doors. I set the duffel down and do what I always do. I sweep. I check corners, closets, behind curtains. I check windows and locks. I check under beds because I’m a grown man who has absolutely had to drag people out from under beds before and I don’t trust anything.
Salem stays near the entryway, watching me with an expression that’s half annoyed, half… something softer. “You always do that?” she asks quietly.
“Yeah,” I say, checking the back door lock. “Habit.”
“From what?” she presses.
I glance back at her. There are questions behind her eyes that are not about locks. They’re about who I am when I’m not making jokes. I don’t give her the ugly details. Not tonight. “From the fact that people suck,” I say simply.