Page 29 of Flint’s Strike

“On whether you’re gonna catch me again.”

My stomach flips. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

Her smile’s genuine now. Not full, but enough. “Liar.”

Shrugging, I keep my arm loosely curled around her waist and start guiding her to the truck.

She lets me.

Fuck.

Chapter Eleven

Eliot

The drive to the Urgent Care on Lakeline is quiet. Parker keeps her gaze pinned out the passenger side window, hands in her lap, the AC ruffling the hair that escaped her braid.

I don’t push for conversation. I’m too caught up in my own head. Replaying the last thirty minutes over and over.

Hardison showed up as I was radioing Parker for the third time. I wasn’t worried—yet. I rarely have to lend out my spare and told myself the batteries must have failed.

But when she didn’t answer her partner’s call, we rushed into the building so fast Nate hadn’t even finished zipping up his Tyvek suit.

I want to ask how long she was trapped. Whether she has any other injuries. How she got herself out. But I’m not sure I’m owed any answers. We’ve spent all of three hours together. We’re not friends. Barely coworkers. If I push, she might insist I drive her back to the Ranger Station and leave her the fuck alone.

Easing the truck into a parking space close to the door of the Urgent Care on Lakeline, I barely get it into park before she’s reaching for the door handle.

“Parker, wait⁠—”

“I’ve got it from here,” she says. The Texas heat barrels through the cab as she throws the door open wide.

“Your car’s at the Ranger Station.”

“I’ll call a Lyft when I’m done. You’re off the hook, Flint. I’ll make sure Nate doesn’t give you shit if we have to work another scene together.”

If.

“You need stitches. Probably pain meds. If you think I’m gonna leave, you don’t know me very well.” I slide out of the car, do my best to hide the stiffness in my own leg, and round the hood.

She watches me, lips parted like she wants to argue. Until I offer her my hand. “Take it slow.”

“And here I thought I’d try for gold in the fifty-yard dash,” she deadpans.

I chuckle for the first time since we went our separate ways at the warehouse. “You let me help you and we might have a decent chance at comin’ in dead last.”

“Is that supposed to be reassuring?” Easing herself down by inches, she gets both feet on the ground before she reaches for my arm.

“Nope.” I let her set the pace. She’s not shaking, but each step might as well be a negotiation with gravity—or her own body.

“Most people would try to reassure a woman with a hole in her damn thigh,” she mutters.

“Parker, I’d think you’d know by now… I ain’t most people.”

Inside, the waiting room is half-full. The fluorescent lights make everything too bright. A daytime talk show drones on from a TV mounted high on the wall in the corner, and a toddler complains loudly about being bored.

Parker releases the hold she has on my forearm before we reach the desk. The receptionist—a woman with graying hair and a bored expression—looks up.

“What can I help you with today?” she asks.