"It was a group effort. Spontaneous. She made some comments regarding my, uh, well, it's not relevant…"

  I laugh. Now it's my turn to cut him off.

  "You were guzzling bourbon and belching louder than that fucking thunderstorm."

  "Hence: Thunder. Think about it, Bullet, if you can out-thunder a thunderstorm, you've earned the name," he says, demonstrating flawless logic.

  "I can't argue with that," I say, chuckling and rolling my eyes. I take a bite of my taco, then another, finish it, and move on to the next one. They're small tacos, and I've got three more to eat before my plate is empty. Suddenly, they taste a lot better than before. That’s one thing I’ve always appreciated about Marcus; no matter how bad things might be, he’s got a way of making the situation lighter. "So, Thunder it is."

  "Listen, Bullet, I need to give you some wise advice, because obviously that’s my thing: you need to clear your head. You get so wrapped up with that girl and with getting back at, uh, the guy we won’t mention right now because who knows who’s listening. Look, I get it, she's pretty, smart, has that fancy last name, plus a bunch of other prime qualities," he says. Which is an understatement. All five-foot-six of Madison stands head and shoulders above any other woman I've ever met in both brains and beauty. "But she's just got your brain circling around a drain and we can't afford that right now."

  "No, we can't."

  Thunder grins, his eyes scanning our surroundings for that cop, who's since taken his order of seven tacos—a number that makes me blink in shock seeing them all on his plate—and is sitting in his car, gleefully stuffing his face with fatty pork. Not that I blame him. They're damn fine tacos. They’re so good you want to eat them alone, where no one can hear you moan as you stuff each juicy, meaty morsel into your willing mouth.

  "So, you kidnapped the girl, but didn't think through the whole ransom plan, huh? Impressive. How are you still alive? How did you not fall and drown in a two-inch puddle?"

  "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I've made a big fucking mess, I know, but I had to do something. I couldn't let her stay trapped with that abusive jerk. Love makes a guy do crazy things, you know?"

  Not just love. Hate, as well.

  In a flash, every part of ambushing Alexander on the highway plays through my mind, and I smile at how satisfying it felt to hit that rich asshole. The hate I feel for him is nearly as strong as the love I feel for Maddy, and the sensation of my fists hitting his flesh is one I will treasure for a long time.

  "Oh, I know, Bullet. Love can turn the sanest of men into reckless daredevils. And the un-sane, un-educated, former-mechanic ones who weren't that smart to begin with, well, it turns them into... you."

  "Shut up." I smack him in the shoulder and he cackles.

  "Did you also say that you loved her? Or do I have taco in my ear?"

  "Never stopped." It's been over four years since I left her, yet I haven't forgotten the way she tastes, the way she smells, the way it feels to hold her in my arms as she sleeps. Those sensations will always be a part of me.

  "You have a shit way of showing it, you know. Ditching her and then showing up years later to kidnap her? I mean, it’s clear she’s not a fan of you. Can't you even ghost someone right?"

  "It's complicated. I had to do what I did. Just like I had to do this."

  "But now we've got ourselves in a bit of a pickle, don't we? How are we going to get that hot little video of yours to where it needs to go?"

  “We’ll figure it out.”

  "Well, Bullet, lucky for you, you've got me: the brains of this operation."

  "Brains? That's a stretch, Thunder. How can you be the brains if you're most known for belching bourbon and getting piss-drunk in abandoned buildings?"

  "Two, three things about that. First: I was not drunk, I can hold my liquor. Two: glad to hear you've accepted my road name. It makes me happy. Three: I think the fact that I'm the brains of the operation speaks just as much for your level of intelligence as it does mine."

  "Fuck. That’s low."

  "Exactly. As low as you think you'll go, I'll go lower. I'll do that scorched earth shit. Now, do you want to hear the plan, or do you want to just eat tacos all day and shoot the shit? Because I'm okay with either."

  "Go ahead."

  "We walk right in and hand it to them."

  "That's it?" I say. It's not much of a plan. Hell, it's not even a plan at all; it's just nine words with some verbs, pronouns, and other shit. "That's your grand plan?"

  "And we wear disguises."

  "Like fake mustaches and shit?"

  "Obviously. Not." He shakes his head, restoring at least a fraction of my confidence. Then, after a bite of taco that leaves some salsa verde on his chin, he continues, "Your face, yes, we'll have to do a little work on. I got a friend who lives just a couple of blocks from here. She volunteers at the Costa Oscura Community Theatre. We'll go by her place after tacos, get her to do a little work on you so you're not so clearly Bullet, just in case Alexander is there. Otherwise, all we need is some mechanic's gear. There's a uniform store close to here, down on third. No one questions a guy who looks like he's in maintenance, especially if he's carrying a clipboard."

  "That's it? We just walk right in?"

  "Exactly.”

  * * * * *

  Dressed in new uniforms, which we've dirtied up with a few splashes of motor oil, carrying a clipboard, a toolbox, and a small envelope addressed to Alexander Covington that contains the thumb drive and a note, we walk right into Covington Corporation headquarters like we belong.

  A young woman with curly brown hair, blue eyes, and a smile that lights up the entire lobby sits behind the front desk. She beams a grin at Thunder and I. Her grin is not echoed in any amount by the security guards grimly standing at each side of the lobby.

  Thunder and I approach, and I tighten my grip on the clipboard.

  "Let me do the talking," he whispers quickly. "You keep your head down so the cameras can't see your face." I pull down my cap and duck my head, keeping my gaze squarely on the floor in front of me. When we reach the front desk, Marcus turns the wattage on his smile up to a million and his voice becomes low, warm, flirtatious. "Hey there," he pauses to read the name on the woman's tag, taking a second longer than necessary because I'm sure he's checking out her chest. Her smile glows back at him, getting brighter. "Jessica. You have just the most beautiful smile, I got to say. Listen, we're here to check the HVAC system." He pauses, looking down at his clipboard, squinting. "Someone from the executive floor called us, said the air conditioning wasn't cooling sufficiently."

  "I see," Jessica says, her fingers darting across the keyboard and her eyes narrowing. "I have nothing in my system about maintenance being scheduled. Do you know who called you? I can't just give you access to that floor. I'll need to verify, first."

  Thunder purses his lips, stares at the clipboard—which contains only a few sheets of paper that we scrawled on and the receipt from our taco truck lunch—and shakes his head. "I wish I could. I just see a note here that they told our secretary, Maxine—she’s a lovely woman, but she just has this chicken scratch sometimes—that they felt like they were at their villa in the Virgin Islands instead of a properly air-conditioned office."

  Jessica shakes her head and her lips turn to a frown. She goes quiet.

  My eyes go to Thunder. He looks calm, but there's a bead of sweat on his forehead that wasn't there earlier, and my eyes then go to the security guards, who all seem to have taken an inordinate interest in our conversation. My muscles stiffen and I get ready to fight my way out. There's three of them, two of us. The odds aren't too bad.

  Jessica mumbles something and the furrows in her forehead deepen.

  It was a mistake to follow Thunder's plan.

  Frowning, she looks back to Thunder, her eyes narrow in a cold, calculating way. This is it—my eyes already start looking for the exit.

  But then she shrugs, and air nearly leaves me in a whoosh.

  "That must've been Mr. Gonzalez. He's one of the EVPs. Not a surprise that he didn't let me know you were coming."

  "If you want to call up there to verify, we're happy to wait," Thunder says. “But the longer we wait, the more likely the coolant coils are to go thermal and, well, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that would be very bad news, Jessica.”

  I want to reach out and slap him. What the hell is he doing suggesting she check us out?

  Jessica shakes her head. "Look, neither Mr. Gonzalez nor his assistant, Troy, are the nicest people to talk to. I'm just going to give you your badges that'll get you access so you can check the HVAC systems and whatever else you need to do. When you're done, please return them to me before you leave, okay?"

  "Thank you, Jessica. You've been most helpful. By the way, when do you get off?" Thunder leans in over the desk and delivers another big smile. I wish he'd keep his damn mind on the job instead of picking up the receptionist.

  Her smile wavers for a moment, though her voice stays cheerful and welcoming.

  "You're not my type. No offense. It's my job to be welcoming, to smile, to put up with all the guys and their assumptions and their flirting, when really all I want is a nice girl to go home to. Now, here are your badges. Don't lose them."

  I stifle a laugh at the look of disappointment on Thunder's face.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I say as Jessica hands us our badges, and we make our way to the elevator. The security guards follow us with their eyes, but say nothing.

  Once we're inside, I let out a sigh of relief.

  "Good job nearly getting us caught by security, you fucking lunatic," I say to Thunder. “What the hell was that bit about the coolant coils going thermal?”

  “Because no one except HVAC people knows what the fuck an HVAC person does. They’re fucking wizards in overalls as far as the average person is concerned; they show up, bang some pipes, and magically make rooms cool.”

  "Yeah, but you almost blew it with that 'verify' nonsense."

  "I had to make it look good," he says, still grinning. “Did the job, didn’t it?”

  The elevator doors open, and we step out onto the top floor, unobserved. There's no one paying attention to us, because if you're wearing a uniform and carrying a clipboard, everyone assumes you belong. We make our way down the hallway, looking for Alexander's office. Every few offices, Marcus and I stop and I scribble a note on our clipboard to look like we’re actually working. Finally, we find it—the largest office on the floor, with an ornately carved door and a plaque that says ‘Alexander Covington, VP’ out front. It's unoccupied for the moment, and I slip the envelope under the door.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I whisper to Thunder.

  But just as we turn to leave, the sound of footsteps behind us stops us in our tracks, followed by an angry voice.

  "Who are you? And why the hell are you nosing around Mr. Covington's office?"

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bullet

  We turn.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Marcus's face. His eyes are so wide you could drive a motorbike through them.

  Fuck. This can't be good.

  "You absolutely should not be up here," says the woman who approaches us. She's about our age, tanned, curvy, wearing a navy blue pants and blazer outfit, with brown curls that cascade down her shoulders, and large, oval-shaped brown eyes that scan us up and down suspiciously. They only glance over at me, a perfunctory search, but they linger on Marcus.

  Being checked out by a beautiful brunette, I'll bet he's in heaven.

  Except this woman looks less than happy to see Thunder.

  "Marcus Thompson, is that you? What in the fuck are you doing in this office?" She says, a mixture of scorn and superiority in her voice. "And why the fuck did you never call me back?"

  "Hey Kayla, how are you?" Marcus says. "It's been a while."

  "It's been six months. Six months, eight phone calls, eleven texts, and no answers."

  "Shit, really? I don't remember any of that. It must be my new phone. I switched providers, and I have to say, their service sucks so far. But how you been, Kayla? I was thinking about you a lot lately. Missed you, girl."

  "You've been thinking about me? Really? Just like how you've been thinking about an answer to those questions I asked you last time, about whether you see a future for our relationship, and how you feel about having kids someday?" Kayla says, standing tall right in front of the much-taller Thunder. She peers up at him, squinting angrily, fire in her voice. "You're so full of shit."

  As much fun as it is to watch Marcus squirm, people are looking in our direction, and if any of them call security, we'll be in a world of trouble. I have to do something fast.

  "You're right, Kayla. He is full of shit," I say, matching my voice to sound just as stern as hers. “You have every right in the world to be pissed at his dumb ass for disappearing on you, because what he did was totally unjustifiable.”

  "I am full of shit?" Marcus says. “Seriously?”

  "He is?" Kayla says. “Seriously?”

  "He is. Marcus, you never told me when I asked you for help to take care of my dying grandparents and their farm out in the mountains above Bakersfield that you had a girl waiting for you. If I had known I would've been taking you away from her and making you live outside of cell service, I would've made you stay here. Even though, thanks to you, my grandparents' dying days went much easier, and they got to enjoy their remaining time on earth together and know that their farm didn't go under. All that said, I still think you owe this beautiful, caring young woman an apology."

  I hold my breath while Kayla looks at Marcus. Her gaze softens, a smile raises her lips, and she twirls a long, curly lock of hair between her fingers.

  "You helped a cute old couple save their farm? That's so... heroic."

  Marcus nods, smiles. "It is. Look, I'm sorry for everything, Kayla, but when my friend called me about his grandparents, I just dropped everything to help those two old sweethearts. You know, they both went out holding each other's hands and watching the sunset?"

  "Oh, how sweet," she says. "I forgive you, Marcus. Don't be a stranger, okay?"

  "Oh, don't worry, baby. I'll call you," he says. Then he looks at me. "Buddy, I think we're done with our HVAC inspection. Everything looks wonderful here, so we better get going, don't you think?"

  "Right. Busy day. Lots of other air conditioners to... condition," I finish quickly, hoping Kayla isn't paying attention. She isn't. She's still staring at Marcus with a moonstruck look on her face.

  When we reach the elevators and the doors slide shut behind us, we both heave an enormous sigh of relief.

  "Fuck, I thought for sure we were dead back there," Thunder says. "One call to security and then they'd be calling us both 'Bullet.' Good work on that story, by the way. If you weren’t all love-struck over Madison, I’d say we should go out, because you would be an excellent wingman."

  I shrug. Some of it, sure, I made up, but some of it—about leaving town, about breaking someone's heart even though you didn't want to, just to save the people you care about—comes from the stuff I wish I could say to Maddy. Stuff she deserves to hear, though I have no clue how I’ll ever sit her down and tell it to her; she's made it clear she doesn't have any feelings for me, and that our arrangement is strictly business, even though every aching beat of my heart tells me we are meant to be together.

  "It was nothing."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Madison

  I’m ruminating. No, I’m dwelling. Languishing.

  All as I pace anxiously in the lighthouse's dimly lit room clutching a worn notebook in my hands while thoughts about how screwed up my future is bounce around inside my skull. My impending graduation bears down on me. It's the weight of my future, my family's future, all the years I've spent studying, striving, struggling. Fear surges through me in choking waves with each passing minute that I spend in this godforsaken lighthouse; the fear of missing out on my final tests, last classes, and the thesis paper that hangs over my head like the sword of Damocles.

  It's all made worse by the man who currently is watching me. The one I've taken to calling the angry, ugly gargoyle, because all he does is linger against the wall and glare at me like he wants to rip my head off: Rook.

  Why the hell did Jackson bring him in on this crazy plan of his?

  Still, after some worry time, I muster up the courage to share my concerns with Rook, who stands statue-still by the wall.

  "Rook, I have to do something. Graduation is just a few weeks away, and I can't afford to miss my final tests or skip out on picking up my study materials. I need to go to my apartment on campus." Desperation laces my voice; I know better than to show weakness to him, but my future will not be bright if I don't graduate.

  "No."

  "Please, this is important. I really have to—"

  "No.”

  He adds nothing more. Just that one simple word, then he returns to staring like a statue, or one of those guards who stands in front of Buckingham Palace.

  "You really should listen to me. Jackson would. He cares. He's not a psychopathic creep. Not like you..." My words trail off. Rook isn't even reacting. And, honestly, I have no genuine desire to provoke him, not after some of the things he told me the last time he was guarding me, when I made the mistake of asking him to tell me about himself. I think I'll need therapy just to recover from that mistake.

  I decide the best course of action is to sit and wait for Jackson to get here. He'll listen to me, at least. And he respects my desire to graduate.

  How sad is it that the one person in my life who respects my needs and wants is the boy who broke my heart, disappeared, then returned, only to shatter my world to pieces all over again?