Page 160 of The Initial Insult

“Let’s talk a sec, over here,” my customer says to his buddies. I nod, like that’s perfectly fine, and they go off a few paces, heads together. I tighten my backpack straps, ready to run if I need to, and rest my hand on the butt of the gun.

Their voices rise, low and muttering, but then there’s something else, footsteps—heavy ones—and I realize someone is coming down the path, running, by the sounds of it. I usually duck into the trees when this happens, but I don’t want to be off-trail if I suddenly have to make a bolt for it. I tuck my jacket back down to cover the gun, and try to look like I’m just enjoying the view, when Hugh Broward comes tearing around the bend.

He’s in jogging shorts, a soaked shirt sticking to his torso. He sees me, nods, and keeps going, his gaze gliding over the guys as he passes them. His footsteps die off, and they turn back to me, my customer in front, his friends clearly flanking him.

I don’t think I’m going to like what they decided.

“Thing is, we came out here to buy Oxy,” he says.

“And I don’t have any,” I repeat, no longer trying to keep my voice polite, this meeting civil. I know nasty and have been around when plenty of things started heading that way. Like right now.

“Right . . . but you said you did, is the thing,” he says.

“And I did, but now it is gone,” I repeat. “So if you—”

“Hey, Tress.”

The four of us jump, all of us caught. Except, I’m glad to see Hugh, who apparently turned around and came back. He’s standing there taking up the whole path, sweat pouring down his face. His gaze sweeps the three guys, assessing, and coming out in his favor.

“You all right?” he asks me.

“Yep,” I say, nodding. “On my way out.”

“Me too,” he says. “Walk with me?”

“Sure thing,” I say, giving him a bright smile. The other three back off, and Hugh motions for me to go in front of him, so that it’s his back turned to them, not mine.

“Thanks,” I say, once we’ve put some distance between them and us.

He only grunts in response, and my phone goes off in my pocket. I pull it out to see a text from the customer we left on the path behind us.

Next time, have what I want.

I text back:

Next time, make your mind up faster and at least you won’t leave empty-handed.

Because there will be a next time. The guy spends too much money for me to send him elsewhere, even if he is kind of a creep.

“Things like that happen a lot?” Hugh asks.

I shrug. “Girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”

Which is true, and also reminds me. I shoot a text to Felicity Turnado, taking a stab in the dark that her number might still be the same but wording it carefully in case it’s not.

My number hasn’t changed. Call me if you need anything. Anytime.

I can’t turn away white trash cash, and I can’t turn away Turnado cash, either.

“Well,” Hugh says, picking our conversation back up. “A girl’s gotta do what she’s gotta do, but maybe she doesn’t have to do it alone. Like, for her own safety.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, ducking under a branch. “And what’s your cut?”

“Nothing.” Hugh’s footsteps fall dead behind me, and I turn to see that he’s genuinely shocked. “I just don’t want you getting hurt, is all. If I didn’t run the trails on the weekends, that could’ve gone bad, back there.”

“It could’ve,” I agree, and turn back to the path. We’re quiet until we break out into the light, sunshine falling on my face. “All right,” I say. “I try to keep it to once a month, different spots. I’ll let you know. We’ll meet up and you . . .”

And he protects me, I think. For nothing. For no reason.