The Best Friend Zone

“Who, that Marvin guy? Joker tattoo man?”

He nods. “Marvin Heckles. That’s his name. I’ve been digging into his background.”

“And?” I shake my head. “Why would he have been at Uncle Dean’s?”

“Trying to make a connection between you and me,” Quinn growls. “I was afraid that I hadn’t seen the end of him, but don’t you worry. The sheriff’s on the lookout for his shitbox Dodge, and I sent Drake Larkin over to your uncle’s place. Told ’em to keep it quiet and friendly so Dean doesn’t raise a fuss over involving the cops. Drake’s helping put up some surveillance cameras in case anyone comes sneaking around again. Same ones he used to help Bella once, and then loaned to Ridge last year.”

A chill knifes through me, and not from the rain still pelting the windshield.

“Okay. And what aren’t you telling me?”

He freezes, those green eyes glowing like brilliant jade.

“Peach, I—”

“Don’t you dare hold out on me, Quinn Faulkner. I know there’s more. You’re barely a better liar than I am.”

For a second, he pauses, then lets out a soft growl through his faint smile.

“Heckles is a snake from Texas, originally. He’s got a nasty record, a string of crimes, mostly petty thefts and drug dealing in Oklahoma, where he did some time and picked up that shitty tattoo.”

“The same prison as that guy you put away? Just like you thought?”

“Unfortunately, and now I’m sure Heckles isn’t working alone. That’s why I wanted to talk to Carolina. Pick her screwed up brain, find out where she snagged him, and whatever else she’ll tell me.”

Dang.

I must be a sick person for ever thinking he came over here for anything besides that. But knowing he wanted to chat up Carolina about the thug makes me happy.

Maybe Dad was right.

I’m only causing trouble by staying here, getting myself worked up over nothing, stressing over a crush I swore I squelched years ago.

And now I’m chasing ghosts of butterflies and getting up in his very serious, very dangerous business.

Would it be better for everyone if I was back in Chicago?

“What should I do?” I wonder out loud, biting my bottom lip.

“There’s no reason they’d want to hurt you or any of your kin,” Quinn says, reaching over. “Don’t worry, Tory. I’m not gonna let this bastard chase you home before you’re ready.”

My heartbeat stalls as his fingers touch my chin, gently tilting my face up, right into the storm of his eyes.

Can he read my mind?

The fact that I’m even asking the question tells me I’m off my rocker.

“They only want info on me. They’ll want to keep it clean and quiet, and getting tangled up with anybody else complicates that,” he says, dropping his hand but keeping that bright-eyed gaze on me.

“And what will they do with that info?” I whisper, my hands gripping my thighs.

“Sell it.”

I do a double take.

“Sell it? What do you mean—”

“That’s how shit works in the prison system. Everything has a price, and you can bet any man who’s currently locked up looking for intel on me is willing to pay through the nose.”

Just then, a rusty old car pulls up in the driveway, and Carolina gets out with a sneer on her face.

“Sweet, there’s Miss Congeniality. I have to go,” Quinn says, opening his door. “See you later, Peach.”

My insides do a weird somersault as I watch him walk up to Carolina, and again when he fights her off after she tries looping an arm through his.

Then, with a quick glance over his shoulder as if to say I’ve got this, they head for her house.

8

Just Goat Real (Faulkner)

Three Years Ago

He’s a freak of nature, but then, as I’d learn soon enough, both Pickett brothers are.

Across the table, Jake Pickett towers over everyone, even sitting down.

I’m a tall man myself, and so is Ted Goode, the senior police investigator at my side, but we’re nothing against this titan in a suit that must’ve cost a fortune to custom tailor for his size.

He’s over seven feet tall. Tattooed hands with fingers so long they look more like ropes. A set of harsh eyes set deep in his head, more like a hawk’s than a human being’s.

Now I know how David felt facing down Goliath.

Only, in this case, Goliath has one hell of a lawyer—if only he’d let him do the talking.

“Jake, please, if you’d allow me to talk to them like we agreed—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jake snarls, whipping his face around until the ant of a lawyer sinks into his chair. Then that harsh gaze is on me again. “Listen, Fed, I haven’t done shit, and I know you know it. If you had anything on me, I’d already be in handcuffs. I came here as a courtesy.”

I look at him coldly, wishing like hell that were the case.