Into the Fire Read Free

beer lay spilled on the floor, and Dillon stood in the corner, smoking a cigarette and looking at her out of hooded eyes.
    She stifled a cough. The room was a sty, but what else would she expect of someone like him?
    â€œSo you’re Nate’s sister,” Mouser said, getting a better look at her in the smoky light. “Not much of a resemblance, is there?”
    â€œCousin,” she corrected him again. “We were just brought up together. And I’m adopted.”
    â€œLucky you,” Mouser said obscurely. He glanced up at Dillon. “Maybe I’ll just leave you two together to relive old times.”
    â€œNot likely,” Dillon said.
    â€œWell, then, to work out your differences. Be nice to her, Killer. It’s not every day you have a pretty waif show up on your doorstep. Be a hero for a change,” Mouser said, his voice stern.
    â€œJamie’ll tell you that’s not in my nature. Scrape Tomas off the sidewalk on your way, will you? I don’t want any more complications tonight. She’s enough.”
    â€œWill do. But I’m warning you, I expect to find her safe and happy next time I see her,” Mouser said.
    â€œShe’ll be safe enough,” he said. “I can’t be responsible for ‘happy.’”
    â€œFunny, that’s not what your women say,” Mouser murmured.
    â€œIn case you hadn’t noticed, she’s not one of my women,” Dillon snapped.
    â€œOh, I noticed,” Mouser said in a cheerful voice.
    â€œI notice everything. Don’t let him browbeat you, Jamie. He’s mostly bark and very little bite.”
    That wasn’t what she remembered. But the door closed behind them, leaving the two of them alone in the smoky, trashed room.
    He moved then, picking up the overturned chairs on his way to the sink. They were in a kitchen of sorts, with a microwave, a hot plate, a tin sink and an old refrigerator. Which would undoubtedly be filled with beer. The old oak table in the center of the room took up most of the space, and he had to come way too close to her to reach the sink. He made no effort to avoid her, and she had to stumble back, out of his way.
    He was washing the blood off his knuckles, and she stared at his hands. They were big hands, strong, with a webbing of little nicks and scars. His knuckles were skinned—it hadn’t just been his victim’s blood. He didn’t seem to react to any pain—he just rinsed the blood off and dried the raw knuckles with a paper towel. He tossed it in the overflowing trash can by the sink, but it missed and floated down to the floor in a lazy, graceful swirl.
    He turned then, leaning against the sink to look at her, letting his eyes run from the top of her head to her wet, aching feet.
    It was very nice of Mouser to call her a prettywaif. She couldn’t disagree with the waif part, but “pretty” was pushing it. Particularly right now, when she hadn’t slept for two days, wore no makeup, and her pale brown hair straggled around her face. She’d never been Dillon’s type, thank God, even at her best, and at her worst she was definitely safe. If anyone could be safe around Dillon.
    â€œYou can spend the night,” he said abruptly. “It’s after three, and I’m not in the mood to haul your car out of a ditch. Tomorrow I’ll get someone to tow it here, I’ll fix it, and you can get the hell out of here.”
    â€œYou’ll fix it?” she repeated.
    â€œI’m a grease monkey, remember? I can fix any car. I just don’t happen to have a tow truck. I count on other people to drag them to me.” He opened the fridge, but to her surprise she couldn’t see any beer. They must have drunk it all. “I suppose you came to collect Nate’s stuff. Fine with me—it’s been just taking up room.”
    â€œThen why wouldn’t you send it?”
    â€œCouldn’t be bothered.” He