Wild Fire (Chaos #6.5)(18)

She’d figured it out, like he had.

And if she investigated it, blew it open for her news website, she’d get off the kids beat for certain.

“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ angry,” he replied. “And you best pray I get a lock on it on the way to my place.”

“Your place?”

“Christ woman, shut up,” he hissed.

With big eyes, she closed her mouth.

He turned back to the wheel, checked his mirrors, slid out of the spot, and drove the ten minutes to his crib.

He parked at the side, got out, walked to the hood of his truck, and saw she was out, moving hesitantly toward him.

He gave a fake-gallant sweep of his arm toward the side door.

She looked at it like a doomed woman looked at the gallows on her way to the noose.

Then she took in a big breath and marched her sweet ass toward his door.

She stepped aside so he could unlock it.

After he did, he stepped aside so she could precede him.

She’d stopped in his mudroom and he moved past her, going into the living room, doing it walking around, turning on lights.

He did this deliberately, taking his time, because he sure as shit didn’t get a lock on his temper on the drive there.

When he finally turned his attention to her, she was looking around the room, her mouth hanging open.

“Yeah, bikers read,” he said snidely.

Her eyes snapped to him.

“Dutch—”

“Shut your mouth, I’m talking.”

She shut her mouth, but she did it with her expression changing.

She didn’t look confused or concerned.

She looked like she was getting angry.

What this fucking woman had to be angry about, he had no clue.

But he was about to ream her with what was pissing him off.

“I cannot believe you sat in my goddamned truck—” he was losing it, he clamped down, and started again, “—with me doing you a goddamned favor, driving all the way out to fucking DIA to pick your ass up, and I told you about Carlyle, and you were struggling with your job, your own shit, when this kid is struggling with his dad getting shot fucking dead, and you used me sharing that with you to do something for yourself.”

“What?” she asked, back to looking confused.

“Investigating the black market info I gave you to write something for your website,” he rapped out. “Bet the crime beat is more interesting than the kids beat. Bet it also has a fuckuva better career trajectory too. Staff writer writing stories about vaping in school make squat. Investigative reporters probably make a bucketload more.”

She took a step back, honest to fuck, like she’d been sucker punched.

“You didn’t think I figured it out the minute I saw you there?” he asked cuttingly. “Bikers don’t read. Bikers don’t volunteer at runaway shelters. Bikers don’t got brains in their heads?”

“Stop it with the biker stuff,” she whispered.

“Fuck you, Georgiana,” he bit.

Her head jerked.

And then…

“No, Dutch, fuck…” She took in a huge breath and screeched, “YOU!”

After that, she started marching toward his back door.

Oh no.

She was not going to go and fuck his mission to get Carlyle some justice.

He began walking toward her, stating, “We are not done.”

She whirled on him and declared, “We so are.”

He stopped two paces away and he didn’t even attempt to disguise the disgust in his tone when he asked, “You think you got moral ground to stand on here?”

“Yeah, Dutch,” she said sharply, taking a long stride to him, and he braced because she was noticeably so pissed, it was sparking the air, zapping his skin, and he thought she was going to shove him.

She didn’t.

She halted so fast, she swayed and kept talking.

“Because I cannot fucking believe that you thought…because I was temporarily a bitch. Because I thought I was in a career crisis. And granted, me taking that out on you was totally not okay. Even if you have no freaking clue any of the other shit that’s going on in my life, not just with my job, but with my sister, and…and…whatever. I cannot believe that you would believe that I would do something so low and scummy as what you’re accusing me of doing.”

“So what were you doing there?” he asked.

“Carlyle is investigating his father’s murder.”

“No shit?”

“And my guess is, I was there for the same reason you were there. I was trying to find the guy Carlyle was talking to so I could figure out what connection he had to what happened that night so I could tell the cops and then they’ll have a lead. And that might mean finding Carlyle’s father’s murderer.”

He didn’t believe her, which was why he drawled, “Right.”

But then…

Shit.

She stared at him a beat, still pissed as shit, before that slid out of her face, and fuck…

The hurt shone clear. Hurt she could not be faking because it shimmered in the wet gathering in her eyes.

“You know, Carolyn is using Jagger,” she whispered.

He wasn’t expecting that, and both her words and tone made his chest get tight.