Clear Intent by Diane Benefiel

Author:Diane Benefiel
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-948029-91-9
Publisher: Boroughs Publishing Group
Published: 2019-05-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

The sharp rapping sound made Jack wince. He’d gotten home around eight in the evening after an exhausting twenty-four hours since he’d left Dory at Trish Gallagher’s home. Rodrigo Calderon seemed to have disappeared into the smoke. With his brother living in Sacramento and his parents deceased, he didn’t have any family in the area, and Jack couldn’t think of any friends Rodrigo had who would take the risk of giving him a place to hide out. But the mountains around Hangman’s Loss were riddled with unoccupied vacation homes where he could lay low. With news spreading, plenty of calls had come in from folks made jumpy by the escaped convict, and that was on top of the already stretched nerves caused by the monster of a fire bearing down on the community.

Every one of those calls had been checked out, and as if to prove that Jack was off his game, he’d taken a call out at the Brew Pub and ended up with an eye almost swollen shut and a near-broken nose for his troubles.

Despite the fire and eminent danger to the community, or maybe because of it, the Brew Pub had been hopping with business on an early Sunday evening. So he’d rolled on the call and found himself in the middle of a girl fight.

He hated girl fights. Most often, they were all drama and hair pulling. Not this one, though, at least the hair pulling part. To make matters worse, a drunk Raquel—of the large breasts—had been one of the combatants. Who knew she could pack such a punch? According to her teary apology, she’d been aiming for bitch Denise Hewitt’s face (her words, not his) when she’d misjudged and clocked Jack. She’d offered to make it up to him by giving him a blowjob. Right there in the parking lot. He’d ended up arresting her when she wouldn’t keep her hands to herself, and then had to endure her crying claims of remorse for the entire ride to the police station.

Brad had taken one look at him and told him to clock out and get himself to the doctor. A look in the mirror at the station bathroom had told him his face was a fucking mess. The bandage on his forehead had come unstuck, so he’d peeled it off the rest of the way, exposing the weeping wound, and he swore he could see the imprints of Raquel’s knuckles around his eye and along the bridge of his nose.

Worn out, Jack had dodged the doctor order and gone home, then decided the gods were not on his side when he discovered the bottle of Advil in his cupboard contained one measly tablet. He’d washed it down with a shot of bourbon before crawling into bed. His nose wasn’t broken, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like a motherfucker, and the pain kept him from falling asleep. The rapping sounded again, and he glanced at the clock on his dresser. Ten thirty-seven.

He knew who was on the other side of his front door.

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