Page 127 of Flint’s Strike

Scrubbing a hand down my face, I remind myself I gotta get through the day first.

“I ain’t questioning your skills, Kurt. I’m sayin’ you’re injured. There’s a difference. Hell, if I thought you’d listen, I’d put you on desk duty so you could help me review the photos comin’ in from the other inspectors. Some of these guys are green as fuck.”

His body language is damn clear. He ain’t happy about any of this.

Neither am I. My body hates me, and I haven’t seen Parker in almost forty-eight hours.

After another tense moment, he sighs. “I’ll take the urgent care. Give the call center and the nail salon to someone else. After that, I’ll come back here and take some of the shit off your plate. Fair?”

I briefly wonder why he’s suddenly so agreeable, but my phone rings, one of the Fort Worth guys reporting in. So I nod, answer the call, and turn back to my spreadsheet.

A few minutes later, I reach for a pad of Post-It notes and knock Kurt’s legal pad off my desk. “Dammit. Like I don’t have enough shit to sort through,” I mutter as I retrieve it from the floor. The top page has the two buildings he got to yesterday checked off, with the Lutheran church next on the list.

I grab my stuff, drop the pad back off at Kurt’s desk, and trudge out to my truck. By the time he’s done with the urgent care clinic, he’ll cool off.

Except, I don’t quite believe that, and I got no idea why.

I’m almost to the Lutheran church when my phone buzzes and the in-dash display lights up.

Morning, hot stuff. We still on for tonight? Your place or mine?

I smile, make a right turn onto Claxton, and pull into the parking lot. Before I kill the engine, another message flashes across the screen.

BRYCER records didn’t tell us much. Got a change log for Rutherford Lane, but no user associated with it. We’re headed out to Bastrop. Kessler never called. Worried he’s gonna rabbit.

I keep the truck—and the AC—running while I quickly type out a reply.

Hot stuff, huh? Does that make you Pookie?

Five seconds later, a reply comes in, but it ain’t from Parker.

Pookie? I can’t unsee this.

Fuck. Parker’s first message was just to me. The second…included Nate. I’m so damn tired, I didn’t even notice.

After a full minute of wanting to crawl under my truck and stay there…forever, I stop worrying about Nate and his native plants long enough to send them both another message.

Nate, did you think Pookie was Parker’s nickname? Fuck no. It’s yours. I don’t have a death wish.

Parker replies on the original text thread—the one that doesn’t include her partner.

Nice save there, hot stuff. But you never answered my question.

Yours, if that’s okay. After the past couple of days, my apartment is a disaster.

I don’t tell her that disaster has nothing to do with the hours I’m working and everything to do with the half-installed acoustic panels stacked against my bedroom walls.

Nate sends one last text. This one is just to me.

You’ll fit in just fine, hot stuff. Love, Pookie.

Chapter Fifty-One

Parker

The Impala rolls over a cattle guard a mile from the cabin. The suspension groans anyway, the undercarriage scraping just enough to make both of us wince.

“Son of a bitch,” Nate mutters under his breath.