Page 6 of Desired By Diesel
"That'd be my guess."
He nods slowly, processing. "And you're what — keeping an eye on things?"
"Something like that."
The truth is, I've been doing more than keeping an eye on things. The black BMW that's been parked down the streetthree times this week? I clocked it the first day. Got the plates memorized.
"You going to do something about it?" Rogue asks.
"Haven't decided yet."
"But you're thinking about it."
I pick up my beer again. "I'm always thinking."
He laughs and claps me on the shoulder. "Yeah, that's your problem. You think too much." He stands, grabbing his bottle. "Let me know if you need backup. I'm always down for a little... neighborly assistance."
He wanders off to rejoin his table, and I'm left alone with my beer and my thoughts.
I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts until I find the one I'm looking for. Womack. Former Army buddy, now pushing paper at the DMV in Phoenix. We served together for two years, and I pulled him out of a bad situation once. The kind of situation that means he picks up when I call, no matter what time it is.
I step outside to make the call. He answers on the third ring.
"Diesel. Been a while."
"Need a favor."
"Of course you do." He sounds amused. "What do you got?"
I rattle off the plate number from memory. "Black BMW. Been parked on my street a few times. Want to know who it belongs to."
"Give me a sec." I hear typing on the other end. A pause. Then: "Car's registered to a leasing company out of Scottsdale. But the account holder is a Ryan Mercer. Address in Phoenix."
Ryan Mercer. I file the name away.
"That help?" Womack asks.
"Yeah. I owe you one."
"You saved my ass in Kandahar. We're nowhere close to even." He pauses. "This guy causing problems?"
"Not yet."
"But you think he will."
"Yeah."
"Well, you know where to find me if you need anything else."
I thank him and hang up. Ryan Mercer. Phoenix.
I don't know what he is to Gracie yet. Husband, ex-husband, boyfriend, stalker — could be any of those. But I know men like him. The ones who think they own something just because they had it once.
Men like that don't stop on their own.
I get home around ten.
The street's quiet. Gracie's house is dark except for one light in what I'm guessing is her bedroom — soft glow through the curtains, there and then gone.
