Page 80 of Dreadful

“What kind of money?” I ask.

“The kind you really don't want to get caught taking but also can’t get caught taking if you do it right.”

Lola snorts. “Very helpful.”

I lean forward. “Explain.”

“Off book operational funds. More cash than you’ve ever seen in your life. More than the ops ever use.” His gaze burns into me.

Curiosity and skepticism war inside my chest.“How do you know about this?”

“And just because someone referred to it as off-books doesn’t actually mean shit,” Lola drawls.

He leans his forearms on the table, dropping his voice. “Guys on the base talk. It’s black cash—unreported and unaccounted for. And I know at least a couple of the stories floating around are true.”

“How?” I twirl my straw through what’s left of my latte.

He exhales, a slow, deliberate sigh. “I know the guy.”

My eyebrows lift. “Who?”

His lips curl into an amused half-smile. “I’m not giving you a name,” he scoffs. “I’m giving you the idea—and the window of time.”

“Pause,” Lola says abruptly, pushing to stand. “I forgot to mention that I chugged an energy drink on the way over. I gotta pee, and I don’t want to miss anything.”

I watch her stride off down the short hallway to the restrooms, then pivot back to Ryder. I tilt my head, letting my hair fall in front of my shoulder as I lean in. “On a scale of one to ten: how confident are you that these stories are true?”

Without hesitation, Ryder meets my gaze. “Eleven.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

BELLAMY

Movement catches in the corner of my eye.

I glance toward the front of the café, expecting another customer, but the door is still closed. I didn’t hear the bell above it either.

My gaze travels farther toward the hallway.

And lands on Cruz.

He’s standing near the condiment station, one shoulder against the wall, watching our table.

For a second, I just stare at him.

Of fucking course.

His mouth curves when he realizes I’ve caught him. There’s absolutely no shame in it. If anything, he looks delighted.

He pushes off from the wall and starts toward us with that easy, unhurried swagger of his.

I lose whatever Ryder is saying.

My attention follows Cruz instead, warmth gathering low in my stomach as he gets closer. His eyes move from me to Ryder, linger there for a beat, then come straight back to me.

“Bells,” he greets, sliding into the worn vinyl booth beside me until his thigh presses against mine.

“You following me now?” I ask, a smile already threatening the corner of my mouth. “How very Calloway of you.”