Adrenaline Rush (Death Chasers MC 4)

I take his coffee, drink a sip, still playing the part of a girl who isn’t inwardly pissing herself like a wimp. Fear always spikes my sex drive. I’m fucked up like that.

I blame my raising.

He just smirks. Rush was never a smirker unless it involved some exaggerated praise for his juvenile bedroom skills.

Now he smirks at something like this?

“Lots of things have gone down this past year,” he says, pulling his coffee back and sipping it as well. “I’ll fill you in later. For now, don’t you have a job to go to?”

Standing like it’s no big deal he plans to get me alone, I shrug, pretending not to be fazed by the fact he mentioned later a little too assuredly. “Suit yourself. Get trigger happy, and you won’t get out of town. They go so far as to track down jay-walkers here. Strict town, this one,” I chirp.

Putting the devil’s advocate at my back, I turn and walk out. My entire body is humming with nervous energy that I hide as I walk out of the coffee shop and cross the street to the diner like I haven’t a care in the world.

That didn’t go at all the way it was going in my head.

Julia is hustling between tables, and relief crosses her face when she sees me. I don’t say anything as I go to clock in and put on my apron. She meets me in the back just as I put my pen behind my ear.

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

“You still have that hiring file updated?” I ask her, ignoring her sound of relief.

Frowning, she nods. “Yeah, but I can’t really afford to hire anyone new yet. The renovations—”

“Remember when I told you I had some issues with my mom that might one day cause problems, and that I might have to leave with very little notice?” I interrupt, concentrating on retying my apron instead of meeting her eyes this time.

“Sheesh, Karen, you told me about that when I first hired you…like seven or eight years ago…and never spoke about your family again. Now you bring it up?” Her hand comes down on mine, and I look up into her worried eyes. “Are you in trouble?”

Ha! Understatement of the century. Time to bump up my acting skills.

“Of course not,” I lie with a tight smile. “Just some family stuff I need to take care of out in New York.”

Lies. All lies. Everything this town knows about Karen Canady is one solid blanket of tightly woven lies to cover up Kara Caine.

“How long will you be gone?” she asks.

“At least a year, but I hope to be back sooner than that.” Another lie.

I’ll either be dead or gone for good so I can start over as another girl in another small town.

Rush can’t do anything to me while I’m in here, so I have at least a couple of hours to work out my next move.

“When do you leave?” she asks, sounding defeated.

I wouldn’t call us friends, but she does. I’ve always been careful not to get too close. I never wanted to feel comfortable enough to spill my secrets to a friendly ear, only to have it thrown back in my face and cost me my savings or my life.

“Tomorrow morning.” Another lie.

At least I finally know who my perverted neighbor is. I see his shadow move through the house, always following me and never turning on his lights.

Always watching me.

It’s a little weird now that I know it was him and not just some random flunky my father or brother sent to spy on me…or simply slit my throat.

Rush certainly isn’t one of my brother’s guys.

I spent all that time putting on a little show for him, planning to draw him out and force him to try something so I could put a bullet in his head. When he never made a move, I started wondering why he was content to just watch.

Now I don’t care. I sure as hell can’t shoot Rush. Almost anyone else, but not Rush.

“Call me before you leave,” Julia tells me, patting my shoulder. “I’ll get your paycheck ready.”

I give her a soft smile and nod before heading out on the floor. Charity almost bumps into me, and her eyes fill with relief and annoyance when she sees me.

“About time you show up. Table two has had five guys on it for most of the morning. You take them, because I’m sick of doing refills, and it’s your section. They won’t leave more than five dollars for a tip. I know the type.”

Instead of saying anything to her—the way I usually do when she tries to boss me around—I grab the coffee pot and the water pitcher. Plastering on my waitressing smile, I move through the routine, feigning indifference to my stalker across the street.