The man made the mistake of grabbing her arm.
Garrett was up in a second, towering over them both. “Let. Go.”
The man drew back as if he’d been scalded.
A slight gasp came from the kitten.
Probably one of pure terror. Oh, Garrett knew what she saw. He was six and a half feet of raw muscle in a torn black motorcycle club jacket with shaggy hair to his shoulders, a couple of bruises across his jaw, and cracked knuckles he hadn’t bothered to heal after a fight the night before.
He cut her a look and then rocked back on his heels.
Her greenish-blue eyes were full of delight…and wonder. “You,” she whispered, reaching to touch his whiskered jaw. Her tongue peeked out to lick her luscious bottom lip. “It’s you.” She tilted her head, adoration in her gaze.
The touch shot straight to his balls, making him throb in a way he hadn’t in years. He growled low.
Then she withdrew.
“No.” He didn’t know what he was denying, but he didn’t want her to stop looking at him like that. Nobody in his entire life had looked at him like that.
The pink blossomed into full-on rose, and she clapped her hand against the laptop bag. “I, ah, um, I’m sorry.” She frowned. “That was, well, that was…” She looked around, no doubt seeing that every gaze in the room was on her. She shrugged and looked back at him. “Sorry.”
“Let’s go,” the man said, backing away.
She frowned at him. “No. Leave me be, Aster. I’ll find my own way home.”
Aster looked around, paling.
Then the asshole left the kitten in the den of wolves.
Her hands fluttered together. “Oh. Well.” She caught sight of the empty row of barstools at the counter and started to move that direction.
“No.” Garrett angled his body just enough to stop her. “How do you know me?” There were many bounties on his head right now, but there was no way the kitten was a bounty hunter. He could read people better than that.
She glanced down at his monstrous boots and took a deep breath before looking up and meeting his gaze. “I don’t know you.” Then she smiled, and sure as shit, it was like the sun had appeared over the mountains after the rainy season. “That was weird and I apologize. There’s no way I could know you, right?”
“Right.” He grasped her arm, careful not to bruise her. “You’re sitting with us.”
“No, I—”
He nudged her into the booth, putting his body between her and the rest of the bikers in the place.
It was time for some answers.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at You Can Run by Rebecca Zanetti!
Chapter One
Laurel Snow swiped through the calendar on her phone while waiting for the flight to DC to board. The worn airport chairs at LAX were as uncomfortable as ever, and she tried to keep her posture straight to prevent the inevitable backache. Christmas music played through the speakers, and an oddly shaped tree took up a corner, its sad-looking branches decorated with what might’ve been strung popcorn. The upcoming week was already busy, and Laurel hoped there wouldn’t be a new case. She stuck in her wireless earbuds to allow an upbeat rock playlist to pound through her ears as she rearranged a couple of meetings.
The phone dinged and she answered while continuing to organize the week. “Snow.”
“Hi, Agent Snow. How did the symposium go?” asked her boss, George McCromby.
“As expected,” she said, swiping a lunch meeting from Thursday to Friday. “I’m not a teacher, and half the time, the audience looked confused. A young woman in the front row had serious daddy issues, and a young man behind her was facing a nervous breakdown. Other than that, one guy in the last row exhibited narcissistic tendencies.”
“For Pete’s sake. We just wanted you to talk about the FBI and help with recruitment. You’re a good face,” George muttered.
Laurel tapped her phone when the Wi-Fi struggled. “My face has nothing to do with my job. I’m not skilled at recruitment or teaching.”
George sighed. “How many people have you seen today who wore red shoes?”
Yeah, she should change the computer update meeting from Tuesday to Wednesday. “Six,” she said absently. “Ten if you include maroon-colored shoes.”
George laughed. “How many people in the last month have worn yellow hats around you?”
“Just eight,” she said.
George warmed to the subject. “Right now, where you are in the airport and without looking, who’s the biggest threat?”
If she changed one more meeting, she could fit in a manicure on Friday. “Guy waiting in the adjacent area for a plane to Dallas. He’s five nine, wiry, and has cauliflower ears. Moves with grace.” Yes. She could fit in a manicure. “Another man to the north by the magazine rack in the bookstore is built like a logger and could throw a decent punch.” Would there be time for a pedicure? Probably not.
“Why aren’t you the biggest threat?” George asked.
She paused. “Because I’m currently performing parlor tricks for the deputy director of the FBI.” She looked up to check her boarding time.
“I have a call on the other line. We’ll talk about this when you get back.” George clicked off.
Laurel didn’t have anything else to say on the matter. Her phone buzzed and she glanced at the screen before answering the call. “Hi, Mom. Yes, I’m still returning home for Christmas.” It had been three years, and her mother’s patience had ended. “I promise. In two weeks, I’ll be there.”
“Laurel, I need you now,” Deidre said, her voice pitched high.
Laurel froze. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s your uncle Carl. The sheriff wants to arrest him for murder.” Panic lifted Deidre’s voice even higher. “You’re in the FBI. They’re saying he’s a serial killer. You have to come help.”
Uncle Carl was odd but not a killer. “Serial killer? How many bodies have been found?”
“I don’t know,” Deidre cried out.
Okay. Her mother never became this flustered. “Is the Seattle FBI involved?” Laurel asked.
“I don’t know. The local sheriff is the one who’s harassing Carl. Please come help. Please.” Her mother never asked for anything.
Laurel would have to change flights—and ask for a favor. “I’ll text you my flight information, and I can rent a car at Sea-Tac.” Murderers existed everywhere but Uncle Carl wasn’t one of them.
“No. I’ll make sure you’re picked up. Just text me what time you land.” Her mother didn’t drive or like to be inside vehicles.
“Okay. I have to run.” Laurel clicked off and dialed George’s private number with her left hand while reaching in her bag for a printout of her schedule. Being ambidextrous came in handy sometimes. Though she didn’t have many friends at the FBI, for some reason, George had become a mentor and was usually patient. Sometimes. Plus, she had just closed a serial killer case in Texas, and she had some juice, as George would say. For now. In her experience, juice dried up quickly.