Good Gone Bad (The Fallen Men 3)

Only… I frowned as the woman beside me laughed and descended the stairs on a glide to come to a standstill before him.

She laughed then rose on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his unshaven cheek. “You shouldn’t be here, mister.”

I blinked.

Danner took his eyes off me to look into the face of the pretty cop and he raised an eyebrow. “Renner texted me. Said we had a new asset he had to speak with me about. Please don’t tell me it’s the Garro girl.”

The Garro girl.

Not Rosie.

Not Harleigh Rose.

I shouldn’t have been angry, not when I called him Danner for the exact reason he’d just called me by my last name. To remind the both of us that this was a modern-day Capulet vs. Montague situation, and at the end of the day no matter that we avoided it, we stood apart from each other across a great divide.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Casey said with another light laugh. “But I think you’ll be happy when you realize how committed she is to this.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” he muttered before giving her shoulder a pat and moving up the stairs toward me.

“You are in so much trouble,” he murmured to me as he passed by. “And I think you’re finally fucking old enough to feel the real pain of my displeasure.”

I swayed back from the sheer heat of his words then gritted my teeth so I could focus on what was important. “Another girlfriend, Danner?”

He looked over his shoulder at me, his glare smoldering. “I’ll break up with her tonight if you promise to be in my bed, ready to be punished by ten.”

My lips parted, releasing emotions I wish I’d kept sewn up tight. Mainly, pure desire and greed.

He flashed me a wicked, lopsided grin that made his green eyes flare and drawled, “Yeah, Rosie, I’ll see you tonight.”

I stared after him as he strolled away, watching the way his long, strong legs ate up the floor, the way the breadth of his shoulders strained his grey tee and his lean hips made his jeans sit loose enough to shift tantalizingly over his fucking fantastic behind.

When I jerked out of it, I looked around to make sure no one had caught me ogling, then wiped the corners of my mouth for any errant drool. As I walked out of the station and over the three blocks to where I’d parked my car (it paid to be paranoid), I tried to convince myself I wouldn’t be at his house that night.

I’d always been a skilled liar, but even I wasn’t talented enough to make that true.

I was at the library late, mostly because my apartment felt haunted by the greasy essence of Cricket’s spirit, but also because I was a good student. In high school, I was lucky enough to get by on sheer intelligence and pure luck, because I didn’t try for shit. It was only after I’d witnessed the havoc cancer wrecked on Loulou and thus, my family, that I found a reason to try. I wanted to be a nurse. Not a doctor, though there was nothing wrong with the profession. I wanted to be the unsung hero for the sick and hospital-ridden, the person that developed a relationship with them, gave them what moral and medicine they needed to survive the ordeals life had thrown in their paths. My family was shocked at first when I’d declared my intention, everyone but Loulou. She’d smiled her movie star smile at me and declared it was an awesome idea.

The night was cold for June and inky black. I tugged my leather jacket closer around me, wishing I’d brought Hero with me as I moved to the parking lot. A prickle of unease shot like needles into the delicate skin at the back of my neck when I opened the car door, but there wasn’t a soul in sight and I told myself I was being paranoid.

I should have listened to my intuition. I was a woman and it was one of the deadliest tools in our arsenal.

But I didn’t.

I slid into the front seat, plunked my backpack on the seat beside me and started up the car. I started to head bang to “Highway to Hell” as it blasted from the speakers then looked up at my rearview mirror to pull out when I saw him.

A huge figure entirely dressed in black wearing a mark sitting directly behind me.

I screamed, a bloodcurdling sound that ripped painfully up my throat and cut through the sound of AC/DC.

One second later the sound was cut off by a large hand wrapping painfully around the side of my throat, the other yielding a wicked sharp blade that was pressed to my throat.

“Don’t scream, bitch. Do as you’re told, and you can end the night nice and safe in your bed, yeah?” The voice was clearly a man’s, muffled, but deep under the hood.