Authors: Shelly Bell
S
HE DIDN
'
T WANT
to admit to it, but Logan had been right. Walter whined every couple of hours to go to the bathroom, slowing their journey to their final destination. Wherever the hell that was. “Are you sure you know where we're going? There's no way anyone lives out here. We're in the middle of nowhere.”
With her behind the wheel and a yet-again sleeping Walter on her lap, they were driving down a two-lane road somewhere in the Florida Everglades. She hadn't seen a single car pass by in an hour, and the last time they'd stopped, she spotted a sign to beware of alligators.
Alligators.
She'd given Walter just enough time to pee before dragging him back to the car. It would be her luck to rescue the poor pooch from an asshole of an owner only to have him eaten by a giant lizard twelve hours later.
Tall reeds surrounded both sides of the roads, and as the sun set, sounds of different animals in the swampland increased until she could almost believe she was in the African jungle. There were no lights anywhere to be seen down this stretch of road. The last sign of civilization she'd seen was over an hour ago as they passed a road that led to an Indian reservation and a board advertising fan boat tours and alligator-wrangling shows.
“Trust me,” Logan said reassuringly. “Uncle Joe made us memorize his coordinates before us kids knew how to read.”
“Uncle?” She couldn't believe anyone from the civilized world would choose to live out here. Even at night, the humidity was thicker than beef stew. Not to mention the crazy bugs she'd encountered in the past few hours. What the heck were they feeding the mosquitoes down here to grow them so large?
“Honorary title. Joe and my father grew up together in Detroit and became SEALs during Vietnam. Dad says Joe was always paranoid. You know, worried about Big Brother watching. After the war, he bought some property with cash and built a secure compound for himself. Turned survivalist. He'd visit each Christmas and give me and my brothers something new to add to our go-bag. About five years ago, he stopped coming. He doesn't leave his land anymore.” He motioned to the road with a jut of his chin. “And we're here.”
Looking ahead, she slowed at the sight of the smooth road turning into a dirt one. At the bumps, the dog woke up, his body shaking. He hopped into the backseat and curled up on the floor behind her. About one hundred yards down, an enormous barbed-wire fence blocked them from going any farther.
She stopped at the fence and put the car in park. “What should we do? Drive through the fence?”
He snorted. “Not unless you have a desire to try electrocution.”
A visual of it playing in her mind, she swallowed down her fear. “Seeing that it's secure, how are we going to get in? It's not as if we can go to his front door and ring the doorbell.”
Logan grinned, folding his arms. “Oh, he already knows we're here.”
Lights bright enough to blind an entire baseball stadium full of people shined on them from somewhere above the car. She squinted, covering her eyes with the top of her hands. “What the hell is that?”
“That's my uncle's welcome.” She peeked through her fingers and saw Logan swing open the car door and climb outside. After a minute, the lights turned off and a piece of the fence in front of them had disappeared. Logan dropped back into his seat and slammed the door shut. “You've got thirty seconds to get through before the fence returns.”
He didn't have to tell her twice. She hit the gas and plowed through the opening. “How the hell did the fence disappear into thin air?”
“Optical illusion. That part of the fence is actually a gate. You couldn't see it open because the lights were too bright.” He pointed to a shadowed house up ahead. “You can park in front. Uncle Joe's already there with his shotgun.”
Where the heck was Logan bringing her? She slowed and parked the car. “I thought he knew it was us.”
“He does.” Logan reached in the backseat and snatched his go-bag. “But until he knows we're alone, he's gonna have that shotgun glued to his hand.”
As Logan jumped out of the car, she cooed at Walter to lure him from the floor behind her. He hopped up and over the console, landing on her lap. She scratched him behind the ears and let him out of the car without his leash.
Taking a deep breath, she got out of the car, ready to face the man Logan called Uncle Joe. He didn't look anything like she expected a man who lived off the grid to look. Wearing jeans and a knock-off polo, he was clean-shaven, with silver hair kept short and combed to the side. Of course, none of that was really relevant since the man was still pointing his shotgun at them.
“Didn't I warn you?” Joe chastised. “Our government is more corrupt than those third-world countries they look down upon.”
“Yes, you warned me,” Logan said in a placating tone. “It's good to see you, Uncle Joe. Now put down the gun. You're scaring the lady with it.”
As if he hadn't noticed her before, Joe turned his head and narrowed his gaze on her. A slow grin formed on his face before he leaned the shotgun along the wall next to the front door. Then he threw his arms open wide, stomped down the steps of the porch, and headed in her direction. “Rachel Dawson, you're even more beautiful in person.”
Glued to her spot out of fear of setting the man off, she slid a glance to Logan, who didn't appear at all worried, a slight smirk tugging up his lips. He hadn't called his uncle first, so how did the man know her name? “Thank you, but how do you know who I am? Do you watch me on Detroit Channel Five?”
With a frown, Joe stopped in front of them and gave Logan a hug, thumping him on the back. “You two are all over the news. You're like the modern-day version of Bonnie and Clyde.”
“What are they saying?” she asked.
“That Logan shot mobster Anthony Rinaldi at your urging,” Joe said, pulling back from Logan. “That you two are sexual deviants on a cross-country crime spree doing everything from robbing sex toy stores to beating up some guy and stealing someone's valuable dog. Ridiculous, right?”
Walter chose that moment to sidle up and plop down on her feet.
Eyeing the dog, Joe scratched his head. “Or maybe not so ridiculous.”
She straightened her spine and placed a hand on her hip. That's what was wrong with the media these days. They didn't dig any deeper than the surface before running with a story. Her, a sex deviant? Anyone who had ever slept with her knew she was as vanilla as they came.
Thank goodness her parents didn't have a television. She didn't want to think what would go through their minds when they learned she was on the run for murder. “We didn't steal Walter. His owner was abusing him. And we never laid a hand on that man.”
“Shit, that means the FBI will have an idea of where we're headed,” Logan said. “They'll know to look for us at the port.”
“Port?” Joe asked, looking at Logan through narrowed lids.
She lifted Walter off the ground and into her arms. “We overheard a conversation between two FBI agents and Rinaldi right before one of them shot Rinaldi in the head.”
Joe rubbed his chin. “Explains who's behind the phony story being fed to the media.” He motioned to the house with a tip of his head. “Let's go inside. I'd hate for this conversation to get picked up by some CIA satellite.”
The three of them walked toward the house, the dog still in her arms. Hopefully, Joe wouldn't mind her bringing an animal into his home.
On closer inspection, the two-story farmhouse looked as if it should be condemned. Maybe it had been nice in its day, but Joe obviously hadn't maintained it. There were wooden boards nailed over some of the windows, missing pieces of siding, and cracks in the wraparound porch. She could almost imagine how peaceful it would've been for a couple to sit on one of those gliders at the end of a hardworking day, drinking an ice-cold beer and watching the children playing in the yard. She wondered if Joe had ever been married or if his brand of crazy had kept him isolated and alone all these years.
Joe grabbed his shotgun then opened the front door, ushering them inside with a wave of his hand.
“Does the word
Leopold
mean anything to you?” Logan asked as soon as the door closed.
Rachel blinked in disbelief as she took in the interior of the home. It was as if she'd stepped into an alternate universe. Joe may have not updated anything on the outside, but inside, everything was immaculate from the crystal chandelier hanging over their heads to hardwood floors beneath their feet. The walls were painted a soothing pale yellow, and as they progressed farther, she noted the gray leather furniture and massive flat-screen television in one of the rooms. He may not get out much, but somehow he'd appropriated the modern items. Not what she would've expected from someone living off the grid, but what the hell did she know? Maybe there was an underground network for people like Joe. She filed that away as a question to ask. Just because she was running from the law didn't mean she couldn't pick up a story or two for later.
“Leopold,” Joe repeated. “Someone's name?”
“Possibly. I'll need to use your computer to see what boats are coming into Port Everglades this Friday and then hack into the cruise lines to check their passenger lists.”
“If you live off the grid, how do you have electricity and Wi-Fi?”
“I generate my own power through a combination of solar, wind, and micro hydroelectricity. It's fairly simple and a lot cheaper than the energy the government mandates you use. Here in Florida, lots of municipalities make it mandatory to hook your home up to an electrical grid, but I know my constitutional rights. They can't make me. Besides, they don't know I'm here anyway, and I plan to keep it that way. Wi-Fi was a bit tougher, but I managed to hook into a satellite and now I have both Wi-Fi and ten thousand television channels from all over the world.”
She'd heard about a couple of different companies trying to start up something they termed the “Outernet,” which would provide international access to Wi-Fi for free, but she hadn't known the capabilities were already available. “Aren't you worried you'll get discovered and thrown in jail?”
Joe laughed, his teeth stained yellow and a couple of them missing toward the back. “Been living like this since the seventies. Feds haven't discovered me yet. Doubt they will now. According to their records, I died in Vietnam in a helicopter crash, my body never recovered. Not quite sure how they missed that I'd never been in the helicopter in the first place. Could have knocked me over with a feather when Logan's dad, whom I'd listed as my next of kin, had showed me the letter he'd gotten from the government notifying him of my death.” He shrugged a shoulder. “I figured I might as well remain dead.” He moved closer and whispered to her, his eyes wild. “You're talking to a ghost.” Leaving her spooked, he backed away with a smile and headed toward a staircase. “Come on. I'll show you to your room. You both look like you could use a good night's sleep.”
It was only nine at night, but they'd been on the go for twenty-four hours and Logan hadn't slept at all in that time. She'd slept a couple of hours that afternoon as was typical for her. In fact, she wasn't tired at all.
They followed Joe up the stairs, and it was then she noticed that he walked with a bit of a limp. It didn't seem to slow him down at all though. He led them past a couple of closed doors before bringing them to the spare bedroom.
“You both can stay here. I'll take the dog with me. Give you two some privacy,” Joe said, giving them a wink as he took Walter from her arms.
Privacy? That's the last thing she and Logan needed. “That's kind of you, but we don't needâ”
“Thanks, Uncle Joe. See you in the morning.” Logan hugged his uncle, who left, shutting the door behind him.
There wasn't much to the room, but then again, why did he have an extra bedroom at all when he lived out in the middle of nowhere by himself? The room had a tropical feel to it, decorated in teal and tangerine colors with artwork of ocean scenes and a ceiling fan with blades resembling palm tree leaves. The queen-size bed in the center of the room was covered by a seashell-themed comforter and matching throw pillows.
Heat bloomed in her core and her muscles tensed.
One bed.
She may have fucked plenty of men, but she'd never slept with one. Bad enough she had insomnia, but to have someone sleeping next to her while her mind raced all night long . . .
“We can't share a bed,” she said.
“Why not?” Logan smirked as he prepared for bed, pulling down the blankets and tossing the decorative pillows on the floor. “Afraid you won't be able to keep your hands off me?” He clutched the bottom of his shirt and, in a single move, drew it over his head.
“I just don't . . . ” She lost her thought, distracted by the sight of Logan's bare chest. Her heart began to flutter and her throat went dry. Dear God in heaven, the man was cut for being so lean. Her fingers itched to play with the light patch of hair sprinkled over his sternum and to explore the chiseled planes and contours of his abs.
Logan's brows furrowed as he unbuttoned his jeans and slid them down his thighs, leaving him clothed in only a pair of tight navy boxer briefs that did nothing to conceal what hid underneath. “Don't do what? Share a bed?” He dropped onto the mattress, putting his hands under his head.
Before she did something she'd regret, she sat on the edge of bed, linking her fingers together on her lap and keeping her gaze focused on them. “Couldn't you ask Joe if there's somewhere else you can sleep? I mean, he probably just assumed we were together since the media made it seem that way. Just tell him the truth.”
“The truth?”