The Best Friend Zone

“Someday, Quinn.” Even his chuckle sounds like pure class. “Lay low until law enforcement arrives. Goode doesn’t know we’re onto him yet. He thinks he simply has to get rid of you, but if you can catch him snooping around your property, trying to stage a scene, bingo. He’ll be in custody in no time. Powers’ ETA is zero five hundred. Take care of yourself.”

“I will, no thanks to you. Peace, man.”

I hang up with my jaw so tight it’s fit to break. Holding back a hundred restless thoughts, I stomp into the bathroom and splash cold water over my face, willing focus.

Okay.

Right on cue, Drake calls, telling me the sheriff’s sent the entire small Dallas PD force to make the rounds by my place. I assure him I’ll call the second the cameras ping anything out of the ordinary.

It’s close to one a.m. by the time I hang up and my instincts tell me to check on Tory.

She can hate me all she wants, but I need her in the same room.

Hell, I need her the fuck out of here like yesterday.

I’ll call Dean, I think, and get them their own police escort.

He can pick her up and bring her to the police station, if need be, until this gets sorted.

She can’t be with me once Powers and the other boys from the FBI show up.

Christ, Goode might have more helpers in law enforcement, too. It might be a week or more before we can call this place safe again, even if he goes down fast, and so does Bat.

As all the moving pieces settle in my mind, I exit my room, stepping into the dark hallway.

Owl isn’t flopped down in front of her door anymore. It’s still closed, so she probably let him in.

I knock softly, then check the doorknob when half a minute passes without a reply.

It’s unlocked. I push the door open.

The room looks dark, but there’s just enough moonlight filtering in through the window to show her bed.

Empty.

I flip on the light, my heart climbing into my throat. The covers on the bed are thrown back like she left in a hurry.

“Tory?” I ask, crossing the hall to the bathroom.

It’s empty, too, not a drop of water left on the sink.

I pivot, run down the stairs, searching for any signs.

“Tory!” Calling her name rips me open like a dagger, panic stabbing through my blood.

She’s not downstairs, either.

The second I see the barn lights on through the kitchen window, I’m stone, glaring into the dimly lit night.

Damn. It. All. To. Hell.

I don’t know what I’m saving her from, but if I ever want to sleep through another night in my life, I have to.

21

Goat Some Bad News (Tory)

I wake up to the worst hangover headache of my life.

My mouth tastes nasty, clinical, almost like…the way rubbing alcohol smells?

What happened? My head hurts so bad I can’t pry my eyes open.

Why am I on my stomach? Why can’t I move my arms? Why am I bouncing?

I’m moving, I realize, tucked back in a vehicle.

I try to focus, to remember, begging my groggy brain to fire again.

Oh, yeah. I was psycho bitch mad at Quinn—how could I forget?

Then I couldn’t sleep, especially when I heard him on the phone with someone having one of his hush-hush secret agent man conversations.

So I’d taken Owl for a walk and my own fine self to the barn to work off some frustration. I’d barely turned the lights on and gotten my bad breakup playlist queued up for the silks when it happened.

Footsteps.

The ones I thought I was hallucinating at first, and Quinn second. Then that shadowy figure crept across the window, heading straight for the door, creeping around far too carefully to be anyone who belongs here…

The last thing I remember is Owl growling. I frantically tried to shush him as I held my breath, grabbing a broom with a thick wooden handle—thick enough to give someone a concussion, I hoped—and opened the barn door.

A sad moan bubbles up my throat as fresh pain streaks through my head.

“She’s coming to.”

My heart stops at the sound of a stranger’s gruff voice.

“Cheap-ass chloroform. I told you this shitty brand was diluted,” another voice snaps. Also male. “It never keeps ’em under for long.”

Chloroform? No wonder my head feels like I’ve taken a direct hit from a rock.

Panic tightens my chest.

The best part is, Quinn was right all along. I’m in a dangerous situation, in so far over my head I might never come out of it.

“Should I give her another round or what? Stuff the rag over her face again?” Thing One asks.

“Nah, we’re almost home. Let the Bat-man have some fun for a change,” Thing Two growls back. “He’s been chewing nails all week, real tense, waiting to hear from his guy. Never seen him happier than when he found out we could make our run tonight.”