Hung

Thad takes another step forward, but then Pick’s somehow between us. He moves quickly for a big man, fast and silent. As the two men lock eyes in a silent stare-down, I become aware of the other men in the parking lot closing in.

I’ve dreaded this moment for so long that it’s almost anticlimactic. Thad wins. I lose. There’s nowhere left to run unless I can somehow board a plane to Bora Bora and throw myself on the mercy of the Tahitians. It’s almost a relief to know that the worst has happened. He’ll put me in the back of his car, and, if I’m lucky, he’ll settle for simply running me in to the station. The station that’s at least a six-hour drive from here. I’m not thinking about the worst-case scenario—the one that involves me, the cuffs, and the backseat of Thad’s car. He’s hinted more than once that I have some making up to do, and that I’d be starting on my knees.

“You got a warrant for that arrest?” Pick growls.

Someone else—Colt—steps up next to Pick. Now I’ve got a hotshot wall between me and Thad. When we danced earlier, Colt was a shameless flirt. Now he looks lethally mean. The two men make an impressive wall of shoulders, four hundred pounds of pure muscle and all on my side.

“What are the charges?” Colt adds his own question, the note of skepticism in his voice overt.

“Arson. And theft.” Thad tries to advance. Maybe he expects Pick and Colt to back down or pull a Red Sea and open up a passage straight to me. They don’t. I blink. Hard. I’m supposed to be handling this. Instead, they’re handling Thad for me. He isn’t their problem, though. I can do whatever I have to do.

“Pick . . .” That’s my hand on his back. I don’t remember putting it there. Even through the cotton T-shirt, I can feel the heat of him and the way the muscles in his back flex as he crosses his arms, sending Thad one of those silent male messages. Probably telegraphing mine. There’s silence for a minute as Thad digests their opposition to his plans for me.

“You want to go with him?” Pick asks the question without turning his head.

“Not particularly,” I admit, “but—”

“You got a warrant?” He addresses Thad again.

Thad blusters a bit and then starts spouting excuses. “On me? No. But Sarah Jo’s got some answering to do. I’m running her in.”

He sounds like a cross between a pissed-off parent and… I don’t know what. But he’s in his uniform, a small arsenal hanging off his belt. He’s bigger than me, stronger, and he has a serious issue with my attempting to blow the whistle on what went down with Mrs. Joan. I know this is supposed to be the moment when I turn into some kind of caped crusader, eager to see justice done and scream my story to the world, but I’m a realist. Thad is a deputy sheriff, and I’m not. He has a sterling reputation, and I’m a little tarnished. There’s zero reason for anyone to believe him over me, and I’d rather not pick a fight I can’t win. Arguing with him isn’t a great idea.

Apparently, I’m the only one who thinks this, however.

“No.” Pick didn’t waste words.

Pick, of course, loves confrontation. I’m sure it has something to do with the whole hotshot thing. If he were the kind of guy who preferred to hang back and watch shit happen, he’d make a terrible firefighter. I’ve seen enough of what they do to know that not only do the hotshots happily launch themselves into the middle of do-or-die situations, but they come out on top. They don’t hesitate, and they win. There’s probably a lesson in that for me, but I can’t help but notice that most of them end up singed a little at one point or another.

“You stopping me?” This time, Thad’s hand goes straight to his gun. He keeps the piece holstered, but the threat is unmistakable. He’d actually shoot Pick for standing in the way, and that is why I’ve spent so much time running instead of standing my ground.

My body and my head are in full agreement, too. The world goes icy cold, my vision narrowing to a cold, dark tunnel that drills in on the source of my current unhappiness. Thad. I’m not supposed to let him scare me like this, but he’s unmistakably in charge. He has a gun, for God’s sake. What else am I supposed to do?